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FOUR ONE-ACT PLAYS 



FOUR ONE-ACT PLAYS 

THE CLOD — A GUEST FOR DINNER 
LOVE AMONG THE LIONS — BROTHERS 



BY 
LEWIS BEACH 




BRE N T A NO' S, Publishers 
N E W Y R K 






\V^ 



Copyright, 1921, by 

Brentano's 
All rights reserved 



311921 
SJCLA622612 



To 

My Mother and Father 



In their present form these plays are dedicated to the 
reading public only, and no performance of them may be 
given. Any piracy or infringement will be prosecuted in 
accordance with the penalties provided by the United States 
Statutes. 

Persons desiring to produce any of the plays should 
address the author in care of the publishers. 

"Sec. 4966. — Any person publicly performing or repre- 
senting any dramatic or musical composition for which 
copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the 
proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his 
heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages therefor, such 
damages in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less 
than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for 
every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear 
to be just. If the unlawful performance and representation 
be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be 
guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be im- 
prisoned for a period not exceeding one year." U. S. 
Revised Statutes, Title 60, Chap. 3. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Clod 1 

A Guest For Dinner . 23 

Love Among The Lions 53 

Brothers . 77 



Note. — Throughout "right" and "left" are the actor's 
"right" and "left," not the spectator's, 



THE CLOD 

Suggested by The Least of These, — a 
short-story by Donal Hamilton Haines. 



CHARACTERS 

Thaddeus Trask 
Mary Trask 
A Northern Private 
A Southern Sergeant 
A Southern Private 



Copyright, 1914, by 
Lewis Beach. 

Originally staged by The Harvard Dramatic 
Club, March 31, 1914. 



THE CLOD 

Scene: The kitchen of a farmhouse on the 
borderline between the Northern* and Southern 
states. It is ten o'clock in the evening, Septem- 
ber, 1863. 

The back wall is broken at stage left by the 'pro- 
jection at right angles of a partially enclosed 
staircase; the four steps leading to the landing 
cut into the room. Underneath the enclosed part 
of the stairway, a cubby-hole; in front of it a small 
table which partially hides the door. To the left 
of the table a kitchen chair. A door, leading to 
the yard, is the centre of the unbroken wall, back. 
To the right of the door, a cupboard; to the left, 
a small cooking-stove. Two windows in the right 
wall. Between them a bench on which a pail and a 
tin dipper stand. Above the bench a towel hang- 
ing on a nail, and above the towel a double-bar- 
relled shot-gun suspended on two pegs. Well 
downstage left, a closed door leading to a second 
room. In the centre of the kitchen a large table; 
straight-backed chairs to the right and left of it. 
A lighted candle on this table. 

The moon shines into the room through the 
windows, but at no time is the kitchen brightly 
lighted. The characters appear as silhouettes ex- 
[ 3 ] 



THE CLOD 

cept when they stand near the candle or the lan- 
tern, and then the lights throw huge shadows on 
the roughly plastered walls. When the door, 
bach, is opened one sees a bit of the farmyard, 
desolate even in the moonlight. 

(As the curtain rises, Thaddeus Trash, a man 
of sixty odd years, short and thiclc-set, slow in 
speech and action, yet in perfect health, sits at 
the left of the centre table. He is pressing to- 
bacco into his corncob pipe. He lights it with 
the candle. 

After a moment, Mary Trash, a tired, emaci- 
ated woman, whose years equal her husband's, 
enters from the yard carrying a heavy pail of 
water and a lighted lantern. She puts the pail on 
the bench and hangs the lantern above it; then 
crosses to the stove.) 

Mary. Ain't got wood 'nough fer breakfast, 
Thad. 

Thaddeus. I'm too tired t' go out now. Wait 
'til mornin'. 

[Pause. Mary lays the fire in the stove.~\ 

Thaddeus. Did I tell yuh that old man Reed 
saw three Southern troopers pass his house this 



mornin 



'? 



Mary [tahes coffee-pot from stove, crosses to 
bench, fills pot with water'] I wish them soldiers 
would git out o' the neighborhood. Whenever I 
see 'em passin', I have t' steady myself 'gainst 
somethin' or I'd fall. I couldn't hardly breathe 
yesterday when them Southerners came after fod- 
der. I'd died if they'd spoke t' me. 
[ 4 ] 



THE CLOD 

Thaddeus. ' Yuh needn't be afraid o' Northern 
soldiers. 

Mary [carries coffee-pot to stove'] I hate 'em 
all, — Union or Southern. I can't make head or tail 
t' what all this fightin's 'bout. An' I don't care 
who wins, so long as they git through, an' them 
soldiers stop stealin' our corn an' potatoes. 

Thaddeus. Yuh can't hardly blame 'em if 
they're hungry, ken yuh? 

Mary. It ain't right that they should steal 
from us poor folk. [Lifts a huge gunny sack of 
potatoes from the table, and begins setting the 
table for breakfast, getting knives, forks, spoons, 
plates, cups and saucers, — two of each, from the 
cupboard^] We have hard 'nough times t' make 
things meet now. I ain't set down onct today 'cept 
fer meals. An' when I think o' the work I got t' 
do t'morrow, I ought t' been in bed hours ago. 

Thaddeus. I'd help if I could, but it ain't my 
fault if the Lord seed fit t' lay me up so I'm 
always ailin'. [Rises lazily.'] Yuh better try an' 
take things easy t'morrow. 

Mary. It's well enough t' say, but them apples 
is got t' be picked an' the rest o' the potatoes 
sorted. If I could sleep at night it'd be all right, 
but with them soldiers 'bout, I can't. 

Thaddeus [crosses right; fondly handles his 
gun] Jolly, wish I'd see a flock o' birds. 

Mary [nervously] I'd rather go without than 
hear yuh fire. I wish yuh didn't keep it loaded. 

Thaddeus. Yuh know I ain't got time t' stop 
an' load when I see the birds. They don't wait fer 
[ 5 ] 



THE CLOD 

yuh. [Hangs gun on wall, drops into his chair; 
dejectedly.'] Them pigs has got t' be butchered. 

Mary. Wait 'til I git a chance t' go t' sister's. 
I can't stand it t' hear 'em squeal. 

Thaddeus [pulling off his hoots: grunting 
meanwhile] Best go soon then, 'cause they's fat as 
they'll ever be, an' there ain't no use in wastin' feed 
on 'em. [Pause; rises] Ain't yuh most ready 
fer bed? 

Mary. Go on up. 

[Thaddeus takes the candle in one hand, his 
boots in the other, and climbs the stairs. Mary 
speaks when he reaches the landing.] 

Mary. An' Thad, try not t' snore t'night. 

Thaddeus. Poke me if I do. [Disappears.] 

[Mary fills the kettle with water and puts it on 
the stove; closes the door, back; takes the lantern 
from the wall and tries twice before she succeeds in 
blowing it out. Puts the lantern on the table be- 
fore the cubby-hole. Slowly drags herself up the 
stairs, pausing a moment on the top step for 
breath before she disappears. There is a silence. 
Then the door, back, is opened a trifle and a man's 
hand is seen. Cautiously the door is opened wide 
and a young Northern Private stands silhouetted 
on the threshold. He wears a dirty uniform, and a 
bloody bandage is tied about his head. He is 
wounded, sick, and exhausted. He stands at the 
door a moment, listening intently; then hastily 
moves to the centre table looking for food. He 
bumps against a chair and mutters an oath. Find- 
ing nothing on the table, he hurries to the cup- 
[ 6 ] 



THE CLOD 

board. Suddenly the galloping of horses is heard 
in the distance. The Northerner starts. Then 
rushes to the window nearer the audience. For a 
moment the sound ceases, then it begins again, 
growing gradually louder and louder. The 
Northerner hurries into the room at the left. 
Horses and voices are heard in the yard, and al- 
most immediately heavy, thundering knocks sound 
on the door, back. The men at the door grow im- 
patient and push the door open. A large, power- 
fully built Southern Sergeant, and a smaller, 
younger Trooper of the same army enter. Thad- 
deus appears on the stairs, carrying a candle.] 

Sergeant [to Thaddeus ; not unkindly'] Sorry, 
my friend, but you were so darn slow 'bout openin' 
the door that we had to walk in. Has there been 
a Northern soldier round here today? 

Thaddeus [timidly] I ain't seed one. [Comes 
down the stairs.] 

Sergeant. Have you been here all day? 

Thaddeus. I ain't stirred from the place. 

Sergeant. Call the rest of your family down. 

Thaddeus. My wife's all there is. [Goes to 
foot of stairs, and calls loudly and excitedly] 
Mary ! Mary ! Come down. Right off ! 

Sergeant. You better not lie to me or it'll go 
tough with you. 

Thaddeus. I swear I ain't seed no one. 

[Mary comes downstairs slowly. She is all 
a tremble.] 

Thaddeus. Say, Mary, you was here — 

[ 7 ] 



THE CLOD 

Sergeant. Keep still, man. I'll do the talkin'. 
[To Mary\ You were here at the house all day? 

[Mary is very frightened and embarrassed, but 
after a moment manages to nod her head slowly.] 

Sergeant. You didn't take a trip down to the 
store? 

[Mary shakes her head slowly. ,] 

Sergeant. Haven't you got a tongue? 

Mary [with difficulty] Y-e-s. 

Sergeant. Then use it. The Northern soldier 
who came here a while ago was pretty badly 
wounded, wasn't he? 

Mary. I — I — no one's been here. 

Sergeant. Come, come, woman, don't lie. 

[Mary shows a sligJit sign of anger. ] 

Sergeant. He had a bad cut in his forehead, 
and you felt sorry for him, and gave him a bite 
to eat. 

Mary [haltingly] No one's been near the house 
t'day. 

Sergeant [trying a different tone~\ We're not 
going to hurt him, woman. He's a friend of ours. 
We want to find him, and put him in a hospital, 
don't we, Dick? [Turning to his companion.] 

Dick. He's sick and needs to go to bed for a 
while. 

Mary. He ain't here. 

Sergeant. What do you want to lie for? 

Mary [quickly'] I ain't lyin'. I ain't seed no 
soldier. [She stands rooted to the spot where she 
stopped when she came dozvnstairs. Her eyes are 
still fixed on the Sergeant.] 
[ 8 ] 



THE CLOD 

Sergeant. I reckon you know what'll happen 
to you if you are hidin' the spy. 

Thaddeus. There ain't no one here. We both 
been here all day, an' there couldn't no one come 
without our knowin' it. What would they want 
round here anyway? 

Sergeant. We'll search the place, Dick. 

Mary [quickly] Yuh ain't got no — 

Sergeant [sharply] What's that, woman? 

Mary. There ain't no one here, an' yer keepin' 
us from our sleep. 

Sergeant. Your sleep? This is an affair of 
life and death. Get us a lantern. 

[Thaddeus moves to the small table and lights 
the lantern with the candle which he holds in his 
hand. He gives the lantern to the Sergeant.~\ 

Sergeant [noticing the door to the cubby-hole~\ 
Ha ! Tryin' to hide the door, are you, by puttin* 
a table in front of it? You can't fool me. [To 
Thaddeus] Pull the table away and let's see what's 
behind the door. 

Thaddeus. It's a cubby-hole an' ain't been 
opened in years. 

Sergeant [sternly and emphatically - ] I said to 
open the door. 

[Thaddeus sets the candle on the larger table, 
moves the smaller table to the right, and opens the 
door to the cubby-hole. Mary is angry. The 
Sergeant takes a long-barrelled revolver from his 
belt and peers into the cubby-hole.] 

Sergeant [returning his revolver to his belt] 

[ 9 1 



THE CLOD 

We're goin' to tear this place to pieces 'til we find 
him. You might just as well hand him over now. 

Mary. There ain't no one here. 

Sergeant. All right. Now we'll see. Dick, 
you stand guard at the door. 

[Dick goes to the door, back, and stands gazing 1 
out into the night, — his back to the audience. ] 

Sergeant [to Thaddeus] Come along, man. 
I'll have to look at the upstairs. [To Mary.] 
You sit down in that chair. [Points to chair at 
right of centre table, and feels for a sufficiently 
strong threat.] Don't you stir or I'll — I'll set fire 
to your house. [To Thaddeus.] Go on ahead. 

[Thaddeus and the Sergeant go upstairs. Mary 
sinks lifelessly into the chair. She is the picture of 
fear. She sits facing left. Suddenly she leans 
forward. She opens her eyes zcide, and draws her 
breath sharply. She opens her mouth as though 
she would scream, but makes no sound. The North- 
erner has opened the door. He enters slowly and 
cautiously, his gun pointed at Mary. (Dick can- 
not see him because of the jog in the wall.) Mary 
only stares in bewilderment at the Northerner, as 
he, with eyes fixed appealingly on her, opens the 
door to the cubby-hole and crawls inside.] 

Dick. Woman ! 

Mary [almost with a, cry, thinking that Dick- 
has seen the Northerner] Yes. 

Dick. Have you got an apple handy? I'm 
starved. 

[Mary rises and moves to the cupboard. The 
Sergeant and Thaddeus come downstairs. The 
[ 10 ] 



THE CLOD 

Sergeant, seeing that Mary is not where he left 
her, looks about rapidly and discovers her at the 
cupboard.] 

Sergeant. Here, what did I tell you I'd do if 
you moved from that chair? 

Mary [terrified] Oh, I didn't — I only — he 
wanted — 

Dick. It's all right, Sergeant. I asked her to 
get me an apple. 

Sergeant. Take this lantern and search the 
barn. 

[Dick takes the lantern from the Sergeant and 
goes out, back.] 

Sergeant [to Thaddeus] Come in here with 
me. 

[The Sergeant picks up the candle. He and 
Thaddeus move toward the door, left. As though 
in a stupor, Mary starts to follow.~\ 

Sergeant. Sit down ! 

[Mary drops into the chair at the right of the 
table. The Sergeant and Thaddeus go into the 
room, left. They can be heard moving furniture 
about. Mary sees a pin on the floor. She stoops, 
picks it up, and fastens it in her belt. The Ser- 
geant and Thaddeus return.] 

Sergeant. If I find him now after all the 
trouble you've given me, you know what'll happen. 
There's likely to be two dead men and a woman, 
instead of only the Yankee. 

Dick [bounding into the room] Sergeant! 

Sergeant. What is it? 

[ 11 1 



THE CLOD 

[Dick hurries to the Sergeant and says some- 
thing to him in a low voice.] 

Sergeant [satisfaction showing on his face] 
Now, my good people, how did that horse get 
here? 

Thaddeus. What horse? 

Dick. There's a horse in the barn with a saddle 
on his back. I swear he's been ridden lately. 

Thaddeus [amazed] There is? 

Sergeant. You know it. [To Mary] Come, 
woman, who drove that horse here? 

Mary [silent for a moment, her eyes on the 
floor] I don't know. I didn't hear nothin'. 

Thaddeus [moving toward the door] Let me go 
an' see. 

Sergeant [pushing Thaddeus back] No, you 
don't. You two have done enough to justify the 
harshest measures. Show us the man's hiding 
place. 

Thaddeus. If there's anybody here, he's come 
in the night without our knowin' it. I tell yuh I 
didn't see anybody, an' she didn't, an — 

Sergeant [has been watching Mary] Where 
is he ? 

[His tone makes Thaddeus jump. There is a 
pause, during which Mary seems trying to com- 
pose herself. Then slowly she lifts her eyes and 
looks at the Sergeant.] 

Mary. There ain't nobody in the house 'cept 
us two. 

Sergeant [to Dick] Did you search all the out- 
buildings? 

[ 1«] 



THE CLOD 

Dick. Yes. There's not a trace of him except 
the horse. 

Sergeant [wiping the perspiration from his 
face; speaks with apparent deliberation at first, 
but becomes very emphatic] He didn't have much 
of a start of us, and I think he was wounded. A 
farmer down the road said he heard hoof-beats. 
The man the other side of you heard nothin', and 
the horse is in your barn. [Slowly draws his re- 
volver and points it at Thaddeus.] There are 
ways of making people confess. 

Thaddeus [covering his face with his hands] 
For God's sake, don't. I know that horse looks 
bad, but, as I live, I ain't heard a sound, or seen 
anybody. I'd give the man up in a minute if he 
was here. 

Sergeant [lowering his gun] Yes, I guess you 
would. You wouldn't want me to hand you and 
your wife over to our army to be shot down like 
dogs. 

[Mary shivers.] 

Sergeant [swings round sharply and points the 
gun at Mary] Your wife knows where he's hid. 

Mary [breaking out in irritating, rasping voice] 
I'm sure I wish I did. I'd tell yuh quick an' git 
yuh out o' here. 'Tain't no fun fer me t' have yuh 
prowlin' all over my house, trackin' it up with yer 
dirty boots. Yuh ain't got no right t' torment me 
like this. Lord knows how I'll git my day's work 
done, if I can't have my sleep out. 

Sergeant [has been gazing at her in astonish- 
ment; lowers his gun] Good God ! Nothing but her 
[ 13 J 



THE CLOD 

own petty existence, [In different voice to Mary.~] 
I'll have to ask you to get us some breakfast. 
We're famished. 

[With relief but showing some anger, Mary 
turns to the stove. She lights the fire and 'puts 
more coffee in the pot.] 

Sergeant. Come, Dick, we better give our 
poor horses some water. They're all tired out. [In 
lower voice.] The man isn't here. If he were he 
couldn't get away while we're in the yard. [To 
Thaddeus.] Get us a pail to give the horses some 
water in. [Sees the pails on the bench. Picks one 
of them up and moves toward the door.] 

Mary. That ain't the horses' pail. 

Sergeant [to Thaddeus] Come along. You 
can help. 

Mary [louder] That's the drinkin' water pail. 

Sergeant. That's all right. 

[The Sergeant, Thaddeus, and Dick, — carrying 
the lantern, go out back. Mary needs more wood 
for the fire, so she follows in a moment. When she 
has disappeared, the Northerner drags himself 
from the cubby-hole. Mary returns with an arm- 
ful of wood.] 

Mary [sees the Northerner. Shows no sympathy 
for him in this speech nor during the entire scene] 
Yuh git back! Them soldiers'll see yuh. 

Northerner. Some water. Quick. [Falls 
into chair at left of table.] It was so hot in there. 

Mary [gives him water in the dipper] Don't yuh 
faint here ! If them soldiers git yuh, they'll kill me 

[ 14 ] 



THE CLOD 

an' Thad. Hustle an' git back in that cubby-hole. 
[Turns quickly to the stove.~\ 

[The Northerner drinks the water. Puts the 
dipper on the table. Then, summoning all his 
strength, rises and crosses to Mary. He touches 
her on the sleeve. Mary is so startled that she 
jumps and utters a faint cry.~\ 

Northerner. Be still or they'll hear you. 
How are you going to get me out of here? 

Mary. Yuh git out ! Why did yuh come here, 
a bringin' me all this extra work, an' maybe death ? 

Northerner. I couldn't go any farther. My 
horse and I were ready to drop. Won't you 
help me? 

Mary. No, I won't. I don't know who yuh are 
or nothin' 'bout yuh, 'cept that them men want t' 
ketch yuh. [In a changed tone of curiosity. ] 
Did yuh steal somethin' from 'em? 

Northerner. Don't you understand? Those 
men belong to the Confederacy, and I'm a North- 
erner. They've been chasing me all day. [Pulling 
a bit of crumpled paper from his breast.~\ They 
want this paper. If they get it before tomorrow 
morning it will mean the greatest disaster that's 
ever come to the Union army. 

Mary [with frank curiosity~\ Was it yuh rode 
by yesterday? 

Northerner. Don't you see what you can do? 
Get me out of here and away from those men, and 
you'll have done more than any soldier could do for 
the country, — for your country. 

Mary. I ain't got no country. Me an' Thad's 

[ 15 ] 



THE CLOD 

only got this farm. Thad's allin', an' I do most 
the work, an' — 

Northerner. The lives of thirty thousand men 
hang by a thread. I must save them. And you 
must help me! 

Mary. I don't know nothhr* 'bout yuh, an' I 
don't know what yer talkin' 'bout. 

Northerner. Only help me get away. 

Mary [angrily] No one ever helped me or Thad. 
I lift no ringer in this business. Why yuh come 
here in the first place is beyond me, — sneakin' in 
our house, spoilin' our well-earned sleep. If them 
soldiers ketch yuh, they'll kill me an' Thad. Maybe 
you didn't know that. 

Northerner. What's your life and your hus- 
band's compared to thirty thousand? I haven't 
any money or I'd give it to you. 

Mary. I don't want yer money. 

Northerner. What do you want? 

Mary. I want yuh t' git out. I don't care 
what happens t' yuh. Only git out o' here. 

Northerner. I can't with the Southerners in 
the yard. They'd shoot me like a dog. Besides, 
I've got to have my horse. 

Mary [with naive curiosity] What kind o* 
lookin' horse is it? 

Northerner [dropping into the chair at left 
of centre table in disgust and despair] Oh, God! 
If I'd only turned in at the other farm. I might 
have found people with red blood. [Pidls out his 
gun and hopelessly opens the empty chamber.] 
[ 16 ] 



THE CLOD 

Mary [alarmed] What yuh goin' t' do with that 
gun? 

Northerner. Don't be afraid. It's not load — 

Mary. I'd call 'era if I wasn't — 

Northerner [leaping to the wall, left, and 
bracing himself against it~\ Go call them in. Save 
your poor skin and your husband's if you can. 
Call them in. You can't save yourself. [Laughs 
hysterically.] You can't save your miserable skin. 
'Cause if they get me, and don't shoot you, I will. 

Mary [leaning against the left side of the table 
for support; in agony] Oh! 

Northerner. You see? You've got to help 
me whether you want to or not. 

Mary [feeling absolutely caughi\ I ain't done 
nothin'. I don't see why yuh an' them others come 
here a threatenin' t' shoot me. I don't want 
nothin'. I don't want t' do nothin'. I jest want 
yuh all t' git out o' here an' leave me an' Thad t' 
go t' sleep. Oh, I don't know what t' do. Yuh 
got me in a corner where I can't move. [Passes 
her hand back along the table. Touches the dip- 
per accidentally, and it falls to the floor. Screams 
at the sound.] 

Northerner [leaping toward her~\ Now you've 
done it. They'll be here in a minute. You can't 
give me up. They'll shoot you if you do. They'll 
shoot. [Hurries up the stairs and disappears.] 

[Mary stands beside the table, trembling ter- 
ribly. The Sergeant, Dick, and Thaddeus come 
running in.~\ 

Sergeant. What did you yell for? 

L 17 ] 



THE CLOD 

[Mary does not answer.'] 

Sergeant [seizing her by the arm] Answer! 

Mary. I knocked the dipper off the table. It 
scared me. 

Sergeant [dropping wearily into chair at left 
of centre table] Well, don't drop our breakfast. 
Put it on the table. We're ready. 

Mary [stands looking at the Sergeant] It ain't 
finished. 

Sergeant [worn, out by his day's work and 
Mary's stupidity, from now on absolutely brutish] 
You've had time to cook a dozen meals. What did 
you do all the time we were in the yard? 

Mary. I didn't do nothin'. 

Sergeant. You good-for-nothin' — . Get a 
move on and give us something fit to eat. Don't 
try to get rid of any left-overs on us. If you do, 
you'll suffer for it. 

[Mary stands looking at him.] 

Sergeant. Don't you know anything, you 
brainless farm-drudge? Hurry, I said. 

[Mary picks up the dipper and turns to the 
stove. Thaddeus sits in the chair at left of smaller 
table.] 

Dick. What a night. My stomach's as hollow 
as these people's heads. [Takes towel which hangs 
above the bench, and wipes the barrel of his gun 
with it.] 

Mary. That's one of my best towels. 

Dick. Can't help it. 

Sergeant. 'Tend to the breakfast. That's 
enough for you to do at one time. 

[ 18 1 



THE CLOD 

[Dick puts his gun on the smaller table, and sits 
at the right of the larger.] 

Sergeant [quietly to Dick] I don't see how 
he gave us the slip. 

Dick. He knew we were after him, drove his 
horse in here, and went on afoot. Clever scheme, 
I must admit. 

Thaddeus [endeavoring to get them into con- 
versation] Have yuh rid far t'night, Misters? 

Dick [shortly] Far enough. 

Thaddeus. Twenty miles or so? 

Dick. Perhaps. 

Thaddeus. How long yuh been chasin' the 
critter? 

Sergeant. Oh, shut up ! Don't you see we 
don't want to talk to you? Take hold and hurry, 
woman. My patience 's at an end. 

[Mary puts a loaf of bread, some fried eggs, 
and a coffee-pot on the table.] 

Mary. There ! I hope yer satisfied. 

[Dick and the Sergeant pidl their chairs up and 
begin to eat.] 

Sergeant. Is this all we get? Come, it won't 
do you any good to be stingy. 

Mary. It's all I got. 

Sergeant. It isn't a mouthful for a chickadee! 
Give us some butter. 

Mary. There ain't none. 

Sergeant. No butter on a farm? God, the 
way you lie. 

Mary. I — 

Sergeant. Shut up ! 

[ 19 ] 



THE CLOD 

Dick. Have you got any cider? 

Sergeant. Don't ask. She and the man prob- 
ably drank themselves stupid on it. [Throws fork 
on floor.] I never struck such a place in my life. 
Get me another fork. How do you expect me to 
eat with that bent thing? 

[Mary stoops with difficulty and picks up the 
fork. Gets another from the cupboard and gives 
it to the Sergeant.~\ 

Sergeant. Now give me some salt. Don't you 
know that folks eat it on eggs? 

[Mary crosses to the cupboard; mistakes the 
pepper for the salt and puts it on the table.~\ 

Seugeant [sprinkles pepper on his food] I said 
salt, woman! [Spelling.] S-a-l-t. Salt! Salt! 

[Mary gets the salt and gives it to the Sergeant. 
Almost ready to drop, she drags herself to the 
window nearer the back and leans against it, watch- 
ing the Southerners like a hunted animal. Thad- 
deus is nodding in the corner. The Sergeant and 
Dick go on devouring the food. The former pours 
the coffee. Puts his cup to his lips, takes one swal- 
loxv; then, jumping to his feet and upsetting his 
chair as he does so, he hurls his cup to the floor.] 

Sergeant [bellowing and pointing to the fluid 
trickling on the floor] Have you tried to poison us, 
you God damn hag? 

[Mary screams and the faces of the men turn 
white. It is the cry of an animal goaded beyond 
endurance.] 

Mary [screeching] Break my cup? Call my 
coffee poison? Call me a hag, will yuh? I'll learn 
[ 20 ] 



THE CLOD 

yuh ! I'm a woman, but yer drivin' me crazy. 
[She has snatched the gun from the wall and 
'pointed it at the Sergeant. Fires.] 

[The Sergeant falls to the floor. Mary keeps 
on screeching. Dick rushes for his gun.] 

Thaddeus. Mary ! Mary ! 

Mary [aiming at Dick and firing] I ain't a hag. 
I'm a woman, but yer killin' me. 

[Dick falls just as he reaches his gun. Thad- 
deus is in the corner with his hands over his ears. 
The Northerner stands on the stairs. Mary con- 
tinues to pull the trigger of the empty gun. The 
Northerner is motionless for a moment; then he 
goes to Thaddeus and shakes him.] 

Northerner. Go get my horse. Quick! 

[Thaddeus hurries out. The Northerner turns 
to Mary. She gazes at him but does not under- 
stand a word he says.] 

Northerner [with great fervor~\ I'm ashamed 
of what I said. The whole country will hear of 
this, and you. [He takes her hand and presses it 
to his lips; then turns and hurries out of the 
house.~\ 

[Mary still holds the gun in her hand. She 
pushes a strand of grey hair back from her face, 
and begins to pick up the fragments of the broken 
cup.~\ 

Mary [in dead, flat tone'] I'll have t' drink out 
the tin cup now. 

[The hoof-beats of the Northerner's horse are 
heard.~\ 

CURTAIN 

[ 21 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 



CHARACTERS 

William Grant 
Gilbert Grant 

COURTLEIGH VaNBRUGH 

Enright 



Copyright, 1916, by 
Lewis Beach. 

First acted at The Playhouse, Lake Forest, 
August, 1916. 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Scene: A large, cold, and formal room done 
in pale green with mauve portieres and upholstery. 
The decorator chose furnishings with care and 
taste, but he neglected the most important feature: 
the room is as cheerful as a mausoleum. 

At the back, to the right, a row of zcindows over- 
looking the street. On the left, well upstage, a 
wide, arched opening leading to the hall. Dozen- 
stage right an empty fireplace. Above it a door- 
way; above the doorway, a screen. Hidden from 
view behind the screen a small scroll-saw. In the 
centre of the room stands a round table; straight- 
backed chairs to left and right of it. A third 
chair downstage left, and a fourth at the back near 
the screen. A davenport before the fireplace. Bell- 
rope at back to the left. A small table near it 
which the butler uses as a serving table. Two 
heavy candlesticks, — about three feet tall, on either 
side of the fireplace. A clock, and framed photo- 
graphs of Gilbert and the late Mrs. Grant on the 
mantel-piece. On the centre table a vase of Can- 
didum lilies. The one bright, inharmonious thing 
in the room is a navajo blanket which lies over the 
back of the davenport. 

The light of a late, sunless afternoon in April 
comes through the windows. 
[ 25 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

The curtain rises on an empty stage. Presently 
a youngish man enters from the hall. He is tall 
and slender, handsome and distingue. Beggars 
never dare approach him. He wears a cutaway 
and silk hat, and has a gardenia for boutonniere. 
His eyes immediately discover the navajo. He 
frowns; then moves to the bell-rope and pulls it. 
Coming downstage he seats himself in the chair at 
the left of the table. He is obviously much an- 
noyed but he does not drop his long-practiced 
posing. 

The butler enters right. He's sparse and tall; 
and although well in his fifties, he has never ac- 
quired a sense of humor. He has not expected to 
see the youngish man, and even a slight expression 
of surprise crosses his face. But he draws himself 
up and immediately becomes a proper property of 
the house. 

The Youngish Man [pointing to the navajo 
with Jiis stick; does not turn his head] Enright, 
who put that barbaric atrocity there? 

Enright [moving to the navajo] Yes, sir. 

The Youngish Man. Why does Father insist 
on spoiling this room ? 

Enright [puts the navajo on his arm as 
though he were in the habit of taking things away 
at the young man's command] I do my best, Mr. 
Gilbert. 

Gilbert. Take it away. It absolutely ruins 
the effect. 

Enright. Often the best of people seem to be 
born with no taste, sir. 

[ 26 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Gilbert. Wrap it up and send it to one of the 
pseudos in Greenwich Village. It'll be appreciated 
there. 

Enright [feeling' it his cue to laugh'] Excellent, 
sir. Mr. Grant — [momentary pause; the mention 
of Grant, Senior, brings some thought to his 
mind] — perhaps, sir, — will you be so good as to 
choose a blanket of the right colour? 

Gilbert. Any blanket would be out of place 
here. 

Enright. Quite right, sir. [Timidly] But, 
sir, Mr. Grant likes something to cover himself 
with. 

Gilbert [showing a slight interest; up to this 
time his manner has been marked by complete bore- 
dom] Does Father nap here? 

Enright. Yes, sir. I suppose he should nap 
in his bed ; but — 

Gilbert [cutting in] This isn't a bedroom. 

Enright. Very good, sir. [Crosses and lights 
the chandelier.] 

Gilbert. It may be necessary to remove the 
davenport. 

[Enright busies himself with anything which 
will provide an excuse for lingering.] 

Enright. Mr. Grant will be so pleased that 
you're to dine with him. 

Gilbert [very bored] But I'm not. 

[Enrighfs face falls.] 

Gilbert. I trotted in to tell you to send me 
round a few bottles of Father's burgundy. He 
never uses it, I suppose? 

[ 27 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Enright. No, sir. He will be disappointed 
that you're not to dine with him. [An idea comes 
to him: if he tells Gilbert his trouble the son will 
put an end to it. He speaks with a meaning sigh.~\ 
I suppose he'll send me to the Park for some one. 

Gilbert [astounded; even turns abruptly and 
looks at Enright'] What? 

Enright [very solemnly] Yes, sir. Almost 
every night for three weeks now. 

Gilbert \_horrified] My father dines with 
tramps ? 

Enright [still in tragic voice] That night he 
went with you to the theatre. Seems something in 
the play put the idea in his head. 

Gilbert. This comes of taking him to the 
theatre. [Gilbert will never take him again.] 

Enright [his tone conveys that he does not 
understand Grant' 's distaste] He says he can't bear 
to dine alone. 

Gilbert. Tramps off the street. How many — 
since I was here last? 

Enright [thinking] That was three weeks ago. 

Gilbert [forgetting himself for a moment] So 
long? [Checking himself] How do you remember? 

Enright. You came to go over the accounts, 
sir. 

Gilbert. Why, this is awful! 

Enright. Isn't it a tragedy, sir? 

Gilbert. I don't understand him. 

Enright [as though no one could] No, sir. 

Gilbert. And do these — these rotters — come 
to the front door? 

£ 28 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Enright. Once I tried to bring one of them in 
at the service entrance. But Mr. Grant objected. 
He was quite unreasonable about it, sir. 

Gilbert [evidently planning to give his father 
a lecture^ I think I'll stay for dinner tonight. 

Enright [relieved and delighted^] Oh splendid! 

Gilbert. No, I can't. Tonight is Reggie 
Schofield's bachelor farewell. 

Enright [giving way completely^ I don't know 
what to do, sir, — buttering to tramps. 

Gilbert. I'll run in soon. I can't have my 
father dining with tramps. It'd ruin me. You 
tell him — 

Enright [cutting in~\ Oh, no. I couldn't, sir. 
Beg pardon, sir, but could you wait? 

Gilbert. I'm late now. I've only time to 
dress. [Rises and moves rather hurriedly toward 
the hall. Stops left lower as:~\ 

[William Grant enters from the hall. He's a 
small, undersized man of sixty-seven, but he looks 
even older and his hair is snow-white. His voice 
is light and just a bit childish. There is a certain 
timid embarrassment in his manner. He wears a 
dark overcoat. In one hand he holds his top-hat; 
in the other, a bunch of bright red tulips. In all, a 
pathetic figure; but he beams when he sees Gilbert 
and goes eagerly to him with outstretched hand.~\ 

Grant. Oh Gilbert, I'm so glad to see you. 
How are you? How are you? 

Gilbert. Oh, so so. I've been waiting for you 
for some time. 

Grant. I'm so sorry to have kept you. But 
[ 29 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

sit down, sit down. Enright, take Mr. Gilbert's 
hat. 

Gilbert. I'm just off. 

Grant. Oh, no. You haven't dined with me in 
twenty-one nights. 

Gilbert. I've really not a moment. I must 
see a sick friend. 

Grant. Well, if you're going to cheer some 
one up, I'll have to excuse you. But do come soon. 
[Timidly] It's lonesome. 

Gilbert. Why don't you dine at the Club? 

Grant. I feel out of place. There never seems 
to be any one there I know. 

Gilbert. I'll come soon. There's something I 
must talk to you about. 

Grant '[brightens] What? 

Gilbert. Don't you know? 

[Grant shakes his head.] 

Gilbert. I haven't a moment now. The hos- 
pital will be closed to visitors. [Moves out into the 
hall.] Au revoir. 

[Grant stands looking after him. Enright puts 
the navajo behind a pillow. Crosses to Grant and 
helps him out of his coat; takes his hat. Grant 
moves to the table; takes the lilies from the vase 
and puts the tulips in their placed] 

Enright [with a slight restraining gesture"] 
Ah, — the colour, sir. 

Grant. Colour? Oh, yes. [Removes the 
tulips, puts the lilies back in the vase.~] Gilbert 
knows best. [Hands the tulips to Enright.] 
[ 30 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Enright. Will you have your dinner in here 
tonight, sir? 

Grant. I think it's more cheerful than the 
dining room. 

Enright. Yes, sir. 

[Grant sits on the davenport. Enright puts the 
tulips on the small table; takes coat and hat into 
the hall. Grant sighs. Enright reenters. Grant 
speaks immediately.] 

Grant. Enright, do you know what day 
this is? 

Enright. No, sir. What, sir? 

Grant. My sixty-seventh birthday. 

Enright. No, sir? Not really, sir? May I 
congratulate? 

Grant. Thank you, Enright. {Not bitterly] 
One usually doesn't mention his own birthday, but 
no one remembered, so I had to tell. 

Enright [apologizing for Gilbert'] I'm sure, 
sir, if Mr. Gilbert'd— 

Gi?ant [cutting in; excusing Gilbert from obli- 
gation'] I didn't expect him to. Why should chil- 
dren remember their parents' birthdays? [With a 
twinkle in his eye] They weren't present at our 
christenings, were they, Enright? 

Enright [not seeing Grant's poor little joke] 
Ah no, sir. 

[Enright picks up the tulips and goes out right. 

After a moment of doing nothing, and as thotigh 

trying to brace up, Grant takes a puzzle, — a couple 

of nails bent together, from his pocket, and tries to 

[ 31 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

separate them. Enright enters with a tray hold- 
ing dinner service, ,] 

Enright. A new puzzle, sir? 

Grant [separating the nails] Yes. It's too 
easy. 

Enright [begins laying the table] You're so 
clever with them. 

Grant. They're all alike. 

Enright. Did you win at Canfield today, sir, 
or did Canfield beat you? 

Grant. Why, — I can't remember. I guess I've 
got in the habit of just laying out the cards. I 
wish I knew a new game. 

Enright. I'll ask my mother. She knows one 
she says Napoleon played to keep himself from 
going insane. 

Grant. Oh, do. [Thoughtfully; almost 
shivers} "From going — ." [Quickly] Take your 
mother some of my jig-saw puzzles. 

Enright [non-enthusiastic ally] Thank you, sir. 

Grant. What else does she do to keep herself 
busy ? 

Enright. Oh, she has a real smart time living 
with sister. The neighbors are always dropping 
in to borrow something. 

Grant. It is different with a woman. An old 
man — [Pauses'], 

Enright. Shall I serve dinner, sir? 

Grant. I'm not hungry. 

Enright. Oh, but you must eat, sir. Cook gets 
so cross. 

[Grant rises and moves to the table as though 
[ 32 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

lie were performing an unpleasant duty. Enright 
holds the chair at the right of the table for him. 
Grant is about to sit when an idea pops into his 
head. He speaks eagerly and tries to be per- 
suasive.] 

Grant. Enright, you have dinner with me 
tonight. 

Enright [shaking his head; he has evidently 
refused more than once] No, sir. 

Grant. Just for tonight. My birthday. 

Enright. I couldn't and keep my dignity, sir. 

[Grant sits. Enright pushes his chair up to the 
table. He unfolds the napkin and gives it to 
Grant; goes out. Grant smells the lilies; shudders 
slightly. Enright enters. He is the perfect, silent 
butler now. He carries a small tray; puts it on the 
table near Grant; goes out. Grant takes the pill 
from the tray, looks at it for a moment, then swal- 
lows it and drinks a few drops of water. Enright 
enters; serves Grant with an hors d , oeuvre; picks 
up the tray and goes out. Grant looks at the hors 
d'oeuvre; shoves the plate forward a little. The 
ticking of the clock is the only sound. Enright 
enters with a dish of celery and olives; puts it on 
the table. He looks down at the hors d'oeuvre. 
Grant shakes his head. Enright picks up the plate 
and moves toward the door. Grant speaks. ] 

Grant. Do you remember that tall man who 
was here? 

Enright [his face shows that he is alarmed, but 
he speaks quietly] Yes, sir. 

Grant. He told me that he and his wife and 
[ 33 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

five children live together in two rooms. How jolly 
they must be! 

[Enright goes out; reenters with the soup. 
Grant is looking off into space. Enright notices 
the chair which seems to mark the empty place 
opposite Grant; he quickly sets it against the wall; 
exit. Enters with the crackers; leaves. Deadly, 
deadly silence follows. Grant thinks aloud.] 

Grant. "Napoleon from — ." 

[He breaks off quickly, frightened. He clinches 
his hands and shakes his head as though trying to 
throw off the mood. But the silence, the coldness 
only impress themselves upon him the more. The 
clock marks the time monotonously. Desperately, 
Grant picks up a spoon, starts to taste the soup. 
But he drops the spoon and bursts out~\ 

Grant. I can't stand it ! I can't. [Rises'] 
Enright ! Enright ! 

[Enright enters. He knows what is to happen.] 

Grant. You must get me some one. [He goes 
rapidly to the windows. Already he feels better.] 
Look! Quick! 

[Enright approaches the windows.] 

Enright. Which one, sir? 

Grant. Any one. Ask him if he won't please 
come. 

[Enright goes to the table to remove the soup.] 

Grant. Never mind. The man first. Hurry, 
hurry. 

[Enright moves toward the hall. Grant hurries 
up to him.] 

[ 34 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Grant. Give me the keys. That wine Gilbert 
had me buy. We'll celebrate my birthday. 

\_Enright hands Grant the keys; goes out left 
distastefully and as slowly as he dares. Grant 
eagerly crosses the room. As he passes the table 
he realizes that his guest will know the meal had 
been commenced. Carefully, yet hurriedly, folds 
his napkin, picks up the soup-plate and goes out 
right. 

Enright enters left with the man following. 
The latter is almost as old as Grant but he appears 
much younger. His hair and full beard are still 
very dark, without the least touch of grey. He is 
tall and powerfully built but he drags his feet 
lazily. He suit is shabby but quite spotless. 

Enright loses no time in lowering the window 
shades.] 

Enright [coldly and disdainfully] Please under- 
stand, he's not crazy. 

The Man [his voice is heavy in sharp contrast 
to Grant's] Then why did you — ? 

Enright [cutting in] His guests disappointed 
him, and he's kind-hearted, and thought you looked 
hungry. 

The Man. He thought, right. [Sits left 
lower; puts his felt hat in the chair, takes a small 
brush from his pocket, and begins to freshen his 
suit and shoes. He whistles contentedly.] 

[After a disgusted glance at the man, Enright 
goes out right hurriedly; returns almost imme- 
diately and lays another place at table.] 

The Man. What's my host's name? 
[35 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Enright [proudly^] Mr. William Grant. 

The Man. Bill Grant? [Starts; looks up for 
a moment; then puts the brush in his pocket and 
goes on whistling.] 

[Enright goes out right as Grant enters.~] 

Grant [embarrassed; advances toward his 
guest] How do you do, sir? I'm so glad you've 
come. 

The Man [rises and holds out his hand. He's 
perfectly at his ease, and seems to recognize 
Grant] Exceedingly kind of you to ask me to dine 
with you. 

Grant [surprised] It's very good of you to 
come. 

The Man. Too bad your other guests disap- 
pointed you. 

Grant. I had no other guests. I invited you 
because I wished company. 

The Man. Oh, I see — [Laughs] — the but- 
ler — 

Grant [surprised] You're not like the — [Col- 
lects himself as he sees Enright who has entered and 
stands waiting at the table] Ah, won't you sit 
there? [Motions to place at left of table.'] 

The Man. Thank you. 

[Enright pushes Grant's chair to the table. 
The man sits. Enright goes out. There is a 
pause. The man waits for Grant to speak.] 

The Man [finally making conversation'] Splen- 
did spring, isn't it? 

Grant. Yes. 

The Man. ThinK the rains are over? 

[ 36 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Grant. I do. Do you? 

\_Enright enters with the soup; serves them; 
exit.'] 

[The man begins to eat eagerly. Grant watches 
him.] 

The Man. It's a long time since I had dinner 
with you. 

Grant. Dinner with me ? 

The Man. Yes. 

Grant. But — ? 

The Man. Don't you recognize me? 

Grant. No. 

The Man. I'm Courtleigh Vanbrugh. 

Grant. Courtleigh Vanbrugh — why, it can't 
be! 

Vanbrugh. Why not? 

Grant. The man in my class of '72? 

Vanbrugh. The same. Courtleigh Vanbrugh, 
poet, philosopher, naturalist. 

Grant. But we expected — [Pauses]. 

Vanbrugh. Big things? I've done them. 

Grant [greatly pleased] Why, I can't believe — 
it doesn't seem possible- — I've not seen you in over 
forty years. 

Vanbrugh [enjoying his soup tremendously] A 
long time for lots to happen. 

Grant. Not many of us alive now. 

Vanbrugh. Suppose not. 

[Enright enters; serves the next course and the 
wine; exit.] 

Grant [with tears in his eyes] Why, this is won- 
derful, — to dine with a classmate. 
[ 37 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

[V anbrugh is paying more attention to his food 
than to Grant's conversation.] 

Grant. I didn't know many of them intimately 
at college, but as I think of them now, they seem 
like boon companions. I feel I know them better 
than most any one in the world. 

Vanbrugh. You haven't seen me in over forty 
years. 

Grant. Just think of that ! 

Vanbrugh. Haven't you something to tell me? 

Grant. I? 

Vanbrugh. Yes. You feel you know me so 
well. 

Grant. About what? 

Vanbrugh. Yourself. 

Grant [slight pause] Why, — I was married in 
'78. My wife died eight years later. 

Vanbrugh [insistently] Tell me what's brought 
you to this. 

Grant. Father left me quite a sum and the 
business. Now Gilbert's taken it over. 

Vanbrugh. What was your business? 

Grant. Wholesale millinery. I wish you could 
have known my wife. Elise was such a wonderful 
woman. 

Vanbrugh [almost gruffly] I want to know 
what's brought you to the position where you have 
to call people off the street to dine with you. 

Grant. I don't exactly know. My wife and I 

were so happy. I spent all my time when I wasn't 

working with her and the baby. Then she died, 

and Gilbert and I were alone. Then he went to 

[ 38 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

prep school and college — and, well, — when he came 
back we didn't seem to know each other as we used 
to. It's strange but I guess it always happens. 

Vanbritgh. Where does he live? 

Grant. At his club. You know, a house isn't 
a home unless there's a mother there. When I 
married, I got out of the habit of clubs and such 
things. Devoting all my time to my family, I 
lost track of friends, — and somehow I couldn't 
get started again. I was too old. So I just live 
here alone. 

Vanbritgh. Why didn't you marry again? 

Grant. Oh, no! There was just one little 
woman and she died thirty years ago. 

[Vanbrugh stretches his hand along the table 
and pats Grant's affectionately as he might a 
child's.^ 

Grant I retired five years ago. I didn't want 
to, but Gilbert said it wasn't right for a man of 
my age and position to work. He said it didn't 
look well. Since then things have been worse. I 
haven't anything to do, and — sometimes — it gets 
so lonesome — that I — well, it seems I can't stand 
it. Then one night Gilbert took me to the theatre. 
A man in the play used to invite people in. He 
wasn't lonesome, but — 

Vanbrugh. Well, I'm not surprised you do. 
[Looks about; shiver s~\ This room is enough to 
give anyone the creeps. 

Grant. Gilbert designed it. He say it's quite 
correct, and he's an aesthete. 

Vanbrugh. Aesthete be damned! It's as cor- 
[ 39 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

rect and beautiful as a winter landscape. But who 
in hell wants to sit in the snow ! 

Grant. I'm so sorry. What can I do? 

Vanbrugh [rising] Why, get some colour and 
life here. [Calling] Here, man. [To Grant] 
What's your butler's name? 

Grant [bewildered] Enright. 

Vanbrugh [calling] Enright ! Enright ! 
[Snatches the lilies from the vase.] 

[Enright enters.] 

Vanbrugh. Take these funeral flowers out of 
here. Get me some bright ones. [Goes to fire- 
place, ,] Bring some good, big logs and build a 
fire. 

Enright [to Grant] You're cold, sir? 

Vanbrugh. Yes, in body and soul. 

[Enright goes out right with the lilies. Grant 
has risen. Vanbrugh goes to the davenport ; turns 
it round; picks up a pillow.^ 

Vanbrugh. Baah ! [discovers the navajo] Ha, 
who let this in ? 

Grant [timidly] I snooze in it. 

Vanbrugh. Don't. Live in it. [Picks up the 
•screen; sees scroll-saw.'] What in the devil's this? 

Grant. My scroll-saw. I cut jig-saw puzzles. 

[Vanbrugh, whistling a lively tune, moves the 
screen dorsm in back of the table, making a sort of 
wall with it, and fastens the navajo over the screen. 
Grant watches, helpless and amazed.] 

Vanbrugh. Say, what is your son? A col- 
lector of melancholia paraphernalia? He must be 
like the people who voted for prohibition, 
[ 40 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

[Enright enters with a basket of wood and the 
red tulips.] 

Vanbrtigh [taking the flowers] Ah, tulips ! 
Who could be sad with tulips near? 

[Enright kindles the fire. Vanbrugh, still 
whistling, gently puts the floxvers in the vase. He 
takes the candlesticks from the fireplace; puts 
them close to the table; lights one candle. Grant 
manages to light the second. The flames of the 
fire spring up. Vanbrugh turns out the electric 
lights. The table, with the navajo screen in back 
of it, looks as though it were set in a cozy little 
dining room.] 

Vanbrugh. Now, Bill Grant, let's sit down. 
And, man, bring on the next course and another 
bottle. 

[Enright goes out. Grant and Vanbrugh sit. 
The latter drains his glass.] 

Grant. Isn't it cozy? 

Vanbrugh. More like. Excellent burgundy, 
Bill, excellent. 

[Enright enters with the next course and a 
second bottle. Grant's face beams; he begins to 
eat. Vanbrugh continues. Enright goes out.] 

Vanbrugh. Do you remember the night of our 
freshman dinner? 

[Both laugh heartily.'] 

Vanbrugh. Will you ever forget Tom Jordan, 
drunk as a lord, swearing that every one was his 
brother? And 'member how he looked when he 
came to the Chinaman? 

[Again they laugh.] 

[ 41 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Grant. And Skee Williams doing a pas seul 
on the end of the table. I can see his green shirt 
to this day. 

[They are in the best of humor.~\ 

Vanbrugh. And Dickie Leonard, — that was 
the night we found out he could sing when pickled. 

[Vanbrugh begins to sing For He's a Jolly 
Good Fellow. Grant joins in. They both rise. 
There's nothing left of their sing'mg voices, which 
break and flat frequently, but they manage to 
carry the song through to the end. The effect is 
pathos, not burlesque. When they finish both are 
breathless. They sit. Vanbrugh empties his 
glass. ] 

Grant. Oh dear, such good times. But so, so 
long ago. 

Vanbrugh. It was only the beginning of my 
good times. 

Grant. Won't you tell me about yourself? 

Vanbrugh. You want to know how I live? 

Grant. Please. 

Vanbrugh. Well, perhaps you better. My 
life's been so different from yours. / know how to 
live. [Drains glass.~\ When I got my degree, I 
went to work in a publishing house. For two 
years I led the life of a slave. Drudging, sweat- 
ing, nothing but grind. I couldn't even go out at 
night and enjoy myself: I'd always be thinking of 
getting up to the grind in the morning. I said to 
myself: "If I ever pet out of here, I'll know what 
to do." Well, my luck came: the Old Man died 
and left me about five hundred a year. The day 
[ 42 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

I got that bit of news the sun dawned for me. I 
hadn't seen it for two years. I threw up my job 
on the spot. "No more work ; now I'll live," said I. 
And I meant it. God never intended us to work. 
If He had, why did He give us flowers and trees, 
and shady nooks and pattering streams? He 
meant us to live; and you can't really live and 
work. [Fills his glass and drains it.'] 

Grant [filled with amazement and interest] But 
what have you done? 

Vanbetjgh. I haven't done a stroke of work 
since. I've lived, I tell you. Oh, I'm what the 
Ignorant would call a tramp. I walk about, and 
spend my days in the parks, where I can see the 
children playing, and the birds singing and mat- 
ing, and the flowers shoot forth and blossom in all 
their loveliness. [Confidentially] You know, Bill, 
I sometimes compare myself to a flower. When I 
worked I was in the clay. Then I sprang forth 
into God's world. 

Grant. Well, well! But where do you live? 
Where's your home? 

Vanbrugh. My home is in the sunshine. 

Grant. But where do you sleep? 

Vanbrugh. Wherever it's handy. 

Grant. I remember at college you never kept 
a room of your own. 

Vanbrugh. What was the use of wasting 
money? Everyone had an extra couch. I used to 
go the rounds. 

Grant. And now, in the winter? 

Vanbrugh. I go south. 
[ 43 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Grant. But you're getting old. 

Vanbrugh. In years, perhaps. 

Grant. You don't sleep out of doors this time 
of year, do you? 

Vanbrugh. Unless it turns cold. 

Grant [shaking his head'} I'm afraid I couldn't 
stand it. 

Vanbrugh. Oh, yes you could. 

Grant [musing} Sleeping on park benches. 
[His face lights up} Courtleigh, you're all alone. 
So'm I. Come and live with me. 

[Vanbrugh only raises his head a trifle.} 

Grant. Yes, yes, do. I've lots of room. 

Vanbrugh. Too much. 

Grant [eagerly} You can go to the parks in the 
daytime. We'll travel. We'll go to Europe and 
South America, — around the world if you wish. 

[Vanbrugh is thinking.} 

Grant. We'll pass the last of our days to- 
gether. You'll have no worry about money, and 
I'll always have some one to talk to. We'll get 
another house if you don't like this one, — nearer 
the Park. 

Vanbrugh. No, I couldn't. 

Grant. You haven't a wife? 

Vanbrugh. No. There's no use in a man mar- 
rying unless he wants some one to look after his 
house. I never did. 

Grant. But you need a home. Oh come, just 
try staying here for a while. 

Vanbrugh. No, thanks, old man. 

Grant. You can leave if you get tired of it. 
[ 44 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Vanbrugh. It's impossible. 

Grant. Why ? 

Vanbrugh. I couldn't stand the restraint. 

Grant. There wouldn't be any. 

Vanbrugh. Yes, there would. I'd be tied 
down. 

[Grant starts to speak.'] 

Vanbrugh. Yes, I would. I'd have to show 
up. I'd lose my liberty. Mighty nice of you, 
Bill, but I prefer my own life. [Drinks.] 

Grant [keenly disappointed] You'd have been 
such a comfort. 

Vanbrugh. You won't try it with me? 

Grant. What ? 

Vanbrugh. Come along with me. 

Grant. Oh I- — [laughing very slightly and 
timidly] I couldn't. 

Vanbrugh. Of course, you could. It'd be a 
damn fine thing for you. 

Grant. But I — 

Vanbrugh [fascinatingly ; leaning over the 
table] Why, you'd love it, — it's just like that book 
Lavengro. All joy and sunshine. You're never 
lonesome, because there are always people about 
to talk to. People who have lived and have a story 
to tell, — stories like Arabian Nights. Sunshine 
and clear air, moonlight and still waters, golden 
sunsets and singing birds. 

Grant. I couldn't leave my son. 

Vanbrugh. Shucks ! Don't you see that he's 
left you? 

Grant. Don't say that. 
[ 45 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Vanbrugh. Sorry, Bill, but it's the truth. 

Grant. It was too quiet for him here. 

Vanbrugh. And so it is for you. Come along. 
This is the beginning of summer. Make it the 
beginning of your summer. 

Grant. You think I could? 

Vanbrugh. Why, certainly. Of course you 
understand it won't be any gain to me. You'll be 
more or less a drag on my hands. But I don't 
want to be selfish. And I always like to help 
people. I'll take you out and show you the real 
glories of this world, — no worries, no cares, no 
loneliness. Why, if you don't come with me you'll 
just go on living here till you die. 

[Grant shivers.] 

Vanbrugh. My life's the thing for you. It 
couldn't be worse than what you're doing now. 
Golden sunsets and singing birds. [Leaning way 
over the tabled Will you come? 

[A brief pause. Then Grant speaks hurriedly, 
reaching desperately for the one way which will end 
his present situation.] 

Grant [with something like terror in his voice] 
Yes, Courtleigh, I'll come. 

Vanbrugh [leaning back] That's the stuff. I 
wasn't sure you had it in you. [Holding up his 
glass] To the new life. 

[They drink. Vanbrugh pulls out his Ingersoll.] 

Vanbrugh. It's getting late. Time we were 
off. 

Grant. Sha'n't we wait until morning? 
[ 46 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Vanbrugh. I'd have the nightmare if I slept 
in this house. 

Grant. I'll do as you say. [Rises, crosses to 
bell-rope and pulls it.~\ 

Vanbrugh. Better put some money in your 
sock. 

Grant. I always carry my check-book. 

Vanbrugh. Cash's better. Checks are difficult. 

[Enright enters.] 

Grant [excitedly] My overcoat, Enright. 

Enright. You're going out, sir? 

Vanbrugh [the effect of the wine becoming even 
rr.ore evident, but Grant, in his excitement, docs not 
notice it until later] He doesn't wear his overcoat 
in the house, does he? 

[Enright goes into the hall. Grant moves to the 
fireplace; looks up at his wife's photograph as 
though she were giving her approval. Vanbrugh 
selects a iidij) for his button-hole.] 

Vanbrugh. Always did fancy red. The colour 
of life blood. 

[Enright enters with Grant's coat and silk hat.] 

Vanbrugh. Not that hat, Bill. It's too la- 
di-da. 

Grant. A derby, Enright. And pack a small 
bag. 

Vanbrugh. Good Lord, no bag. Toothbrush. 
Too much to carry. 

Enright. Shall I call a taxi, sir? 

Grant [undecided] Why — 

Vanbrugh. We're going to walk ! 

[Enright starts; puts coat and hat on chair, 
[ 47 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

right upper; hurriedly goes out right. Vanbrugh 
still sits, soporifically, at the table; he fills his glass 
and drinks. Grant is too excited to be much sur- 
prised by Enright's hurried exit before helping 
him with his coat; he gets into it himself as Van- 
brugh sings. ~\ 

Vanbrugh [singing] 

"The noble Duke of York, 
He had ten thousand men, 
He led them up to the top of the hill, 
And he led them down again." 

Grant [enraptured] Oh, Courtleigh, never to be 
alone again. 

[Enright enters, right.] 

Enright [lying, haltingly] Beg pardon, sir, but 
Mr. Gilbert just 'phoned — he — said he'd drop in 
tonight — . He — he suddenly remembered your 
birthday, sir. 

[Grant smiles pitifully. Enright watches him 
closely.] 

Vanbrugh [drunk] I never could stand it to 
work. "No, no," I said, "I never was meant for 
work." Always hated work. Too damn much 
trouble. [Laughs.] Bill, I used to let the rooms 
where I was staying at college grow cold rather 
than mend the fire. 

[Grant starts to take off his overcoat. Enright 
hurries to help him.] 

Vanbrugh. Honest to God, I did. [Laughs; 
rises, — is not too steady on his feet.] Bill, maybe 
we'll go to Af-ri-ca. Always wanted to go to 
[ 48 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Af-ri-ca, and just reach up and grab a banana 
when I got hungry. 

{Grant drops into the chair at right of table.] 

Vanbrugh. And hear the birds sing, lovely 
birds, green birds and red birds. What say, Bill, 
shall we go to Af-ri-ca? 

Grant. I guess not, Courtleigh. 

{Much relieved, Enright goes out right with the 
coat and hat on his arm.] 

Vanbrugh. Don't want to go to Af-ri-ca? All 
right. I don't care. Always agreeable. But come 
along. Get a move on. Golden sunsets and sing- 
ing birds. {Moves toward chair, left-lower/] 

Grant {slowly] I think I won't go, Courtleigh. 

Vanbrugh {stops'] Not go? Why not go? 

Grant. No. I can't leave. 

Vanbrugh. All right. Guess I'll move along. 
Too weak. You'd been a nuisance. I wouldn't a 
had my liberty. {Reaching for his hat.] But 
God, you'll die here. {Moves toward Grant] 
'Night, Bill. 

Grant {rises; crosses to Vanbrugh] Courtleigh, 
there aren't many of us old ones left now. If ever 
I can help you, let me know. Do you understand? 

Vanbrugh. Sure understand. 

Grant. I mean it. 

{Vanbrugh is silent.] 

Grant. Is there something now? 

Vanbrugh. Well — 

Grant. What is it? 

Vanbrugh. Got devilish thirsty one night. 
Met a bootlegger. 

[ 49 ] 



-&£> v 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

[Grant pulls out his wallet; starts to take 
money from it.~\ 

Vanbrugh. If you don't mind, — 'course you 
understand I shouldn't have offered if you hadn't 
asked, — you might — 

[Grant gives him several bills.] 

Vanbrugh. You're too good. That's trouble 
with you. [Puts the money in his pocket.] Damn 
prohibition ! 

Grant [now seems to notice Vanbruglis condi- 
tion for the first time; stretches out his hand as 
though to steady him] You better stay all night. 

Vanbrugh [taking Grant's hand] No, thanks. 
Don't like nightmare. 

Grant. Sha'n't I call a taxi? 

Vanbrugh [whispering in Grant's ear] Need a 
walk. 

[Vanbrugh moves into the hall. Grant follows 
him.] 

Vanbrugh. Thanks for a fine evening. Fine 
dinner. I'll come again. Great burgundy, Bill. 
[His voice grows fainter as he trails off into the 
night.] Best I ever had. Goodnight. Pleasant 
dreams. Green birds and red birds — 

Grant [calling after hint] Goodnight, Court- 
leigh. 

[Enright enters rather timidly from the right; 
starts to put the room in order. Grant comes from 
the hall; for a moment he stands looking about; 
then he notices Enright.] 

Grant. Oh, you go to bed, Enright. [Hands 
Enright the tulips] I'll wait up for Mr. Gilbert. 
[ 50 ] 



A GUEST FOR DINNER 

Enright. But, sir, — he might be detained, sir. 

Grant. Oh, no. He'll come. [He goes to the 
fireplace, looks up at Gilbert's photograph, smiles 
and shakes his head with pleasured] 

Enright. Anything I can do for you, sir? 

Grant. No, thanks. \_Sits on the davenport] 
Goodnight. 

Enright. Goodnight, sir. [Moves toward 
door, right.] 

Grant. Oh, Enright do ask your mother 
about that game Napoleon played. 

Enright. Certainly, sir. [Exit.] 

[Grant sits waiting for Gilbert. The stage 
grows dark. The clock strikes twelve. In a 
moment the stage is lighted again. Grant has 
fallen asleep. The candles have nearly burned out. 
Grant wakes with a start. He looks at his watch; 
compares it with the clock. Rises. He stands look- 
ing toward Gilbert's photograph for a moment. 
Then he turns, moves to the table, and blows out 
the candles. The light in the hall shines into the 
room. Grant goes slowly into the hall. He is 
heard climbing the stairs. 

CURTAIN 



[ 51 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

A Farce 



CHARACTERS 

honore lazenby-bommarito 

rlccakdo bommarito 

Clara 

The Photographer 



Copyright, 1919, by 
Lewis Beach. 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Scene: A gaudily furnished room in a New 
York apartment house. One enters the hall through 
a door upstage left. Below the door a davenport; 
in back of the davenport a small table holding a 
lamp. At the back, to the right, a row of windows 
and a window-box of cyclamen. A door, leading to 
Riccardo's study, left back. Between this door 
and the windows a Victrola. Upstage left, a third 
door. Madame , s grand piano is at the left of the 
room, so placed that the key-board cannot be seen 
by the audience. A small, low table in the centre of 
the room, and a console table downstage left. A 
chair to the right of the centre table, one near the 
windows, and a third in the curve of the piano. 
Photographs of musical celebrities adorn the walls. 
Bric-a-brac wherever there is room for it. 

( When the curtain rises, Honore, wearing a very 
elaborate negligee, is seated before a breakfast 
tray. She is a tall and distinguished looking Amer- 
ican of about thirty-five years of age. Her low 
eye-brows give her face a frowning expression, and 
she appears to be cold and austere. But she pos- 
sesses a great deal of magnetism. In an adjoining 
room, Riccardo is singing the Addio alia madre 
from Cavalleria Rusticana. Honore is quite in- 
different to his singing. She has finished her break- 
[ 55 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

fast and is dreamily smoking a long Russian 
cigarette. A heap of letters lie on the table beside 
the tray. 

Almost immediately her maid, Clara, bursts into 
the room. She carries a newspaper.) 

Clara [excitedly] Oh, Madame, did you see 
what the paper says of Signor? 

Honore [suddenly very aleri\ Quick! The re- 
view of my recital. 

Clara. I haven't seen it yet. 

Honore. Beast! 

Clara [reading] "Signor Bommarito was 
superb. For once we saw a Cavaradossi for whom 
Tosca might truly have committed murder. And 
he sang — " 

Honore. Stop ! Find my notice. [Snatches 
the paper from Clara.] 

Clara [thrilled] Like a god! Oh, Signor is 
such a success. Even Caruso — 

Honore. I can't find my criticism. 

Clara. Shall I? 

[Honore throws tlw paper at Clara; paces bach 
and forth.] 

Honore. Quick ! Or I'll die of heart-failure. 

Clara. I find nothing, Madame. 

Honore. You dare to say that the great 
Lazenby played last night and the filthy paper 
doesn't give her a column? L'ame noire. 

Clara. The war, Madame, takes so much 
space. 

Honore. The war? "What is the war? 
Lazenby played last night and there is no notice. 

[ 56 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

[Turns and faces door leading to room in which 
Riccardo is singing] Stop it, stop it ! 

Clara. Ah, here it is. 

Honore [turning] Trickster. You would have 
me die. [/S^s] Well read, why don't you read? 

Clara [reading] "Honore Lazenby-Bommarito, 
wife of Riccardo Bommarito — " 

Honore [explodes] Oh! It writes of me so? 
Huh! They mean Riccardo is the husband of 
Honore Lazenby. 

Clara. But that's the same thing, Madame. 

Honore. It is not ! 

Clara [reading] "The house was not as large 
as it should have been." 

Honore. Oh! How dare he notice that? If 
he did how dare he print it? 

Clara. Shall I read any more? 

Honore. Of course, you fool. 

Clara [reading] "Honore Lazenby-Bom — Bom 
— ahem — gave one of her charming piano recitals 
in Carnegie Hall last evening." 

Honore. "Charming." Too mild a word. 
"Epoch-making" were better. 

Clara [reading] "Her program included com- 
positions by Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Ornstein, 
Debussy — " 

Honore. I know what I played, — only the 
moderns. Read on. 

Clara. But that's all there is. 

Honore. I'll slap you. 

Clara [drawing back] It's true. 

Honore [rises with queenly dignity] What? 
[ 57 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Clara. It does not tell how you played; only 
what you played. 

[Furiously Honore grabs the paper and reads. 
Riccardo begins the Siciliana. Clara is imme- 
diately enraptured.^ 

Honore. How dare you bring this paper into 
the house? 

[Looks up; notices Clara's expression.^ 

Clara. Sh! He's singing divinely. 

Honore. You "sh" me? 

[With an exclamation, Honore crumples tlie 
paper and flings it across the room, rushes to the 
piano and wildly pounds out Paderewski's Pol- 
onaise Militaire, almost drowning Riccardo's voice. 
Clara covers her ears with her hands. Truly the 
duet is most unpleasant. Honore listens with one 
ear, expecting that Riccardo will stop immediately. 
But he sings on. Clara is ready to weep; she picks 
up the paper and smoothes it. Failing to stop 
Riccardo, Honore rises. She's even more angry 
than when she sat down J] 

Honore. What are you doing with that paper, 
bete noire? 

Clara [timidly] I thought Signor would like to 
see it. 

Honore. Mon Dieu! Signor! Signor! Al- 
ways Signor. No one thinks of me. [She appears 
to be about to weep.~\ 

Clara [puts paper on table] Shall I get the 
rest of the morning papers? 

Honore [now far from tears~\ I wouldn't look 
at another for Paderewski's scalp. 
[ 58] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

[Honore goes to the Victrola, finds a record, and 
starts the machine, The record is Caruso's sing- 
ing of the Siciliana. Like a round is the duet by 
Caruso and Riccardo. Clara is aghast when she 
realizes what Honor e has done; she picks up the 
breakfast tray and flees. Honore takes the letters, 
sits, and feigns to read. But she is listening in- 
tently, expecting Riccardo to stop singing im- 
mediately. She hasn't long to wait. He enters, 
from the back, in a terrible rage; rushes to the 
Victrola and stops it. He is a tall, beautifidly 
built animal in his early thirties, with little strength 
or intelligence showing in his face. 

Riccardo. You — you — [pauses, catches his 
breatK] — you 'ave insult mc! 

[Pretending to pay no heed to him, Honore hums 
the Siciliana.] 

Riccardo. You play diet box ven I re'earse. 

Honore. Just a little coaching from a real 
tenor. 

Riccardo. Real tenor! [Laughs artificially] 
Dio mio! [Tragically] You are my vife an' you 
treat me so. 

[Honore rises as though bored, sits at the piano 
and plays Busoni's transcription of Bach's choral, 
Rejoice, Beloved Christians.] 

Riccardo [almost in tears'] Last night ven I 
leave opera-'ouse I learn dat I mus' seeng again 
tonight, — in Cavalleria, an' I 'ave not seeng Tur- 
ridu in vone year. [Wildly] I tell you I must 
re'earse — you — you make me vild. Stop ! Stop ! 
[ 59 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

[Honore plays on. Riccardo rushes to the piano 
and closes the key-board. Honore risesJ] 

Honore. You stop me, me the great Lazenby ? 

Riccardo. O Dio! It is all right for you to 
make stop to me seenging, but I must leesten to 
you pound all day. Are you crazy dat you no 
on'erstan' vat I am? Last night all de vomens 
stan' on feets ven I feenish E lucevan le stelle. 
Today my vife she drown my voice. Santa 
Madonna! Can you say nodings? 

Honore. I can't waste my strength. 

Riccardo \blazing~\ You must save it to pound, 
pound dat damn piano. Last night, I ready to 
die, — so perfect. Even dos cute leetle ballerinas — 

Honore. Aha! I suspected as much. Un- 
faithful behind my back. 

Riccardo. Dey vorship artist in me. 

Honore. I should not have allowed you to sing 
the same night I was playing. I should have been 
back-stage to watch you. I knew things would go 
wrong if ever I wasn't there when you sang. 

Riccardo. Not nodings vent vrong. Last 
night I 'ad my greatest success. 

Honore [with contempt^ Carrying on with that 
red-headed member of the corp de ballet. 

Riccardo. She vas cute last night. In Act 1 
she vas acolyte. Dio, vat a shape ! 

Honore. And you tell me that right to my 
face ? 

Riccardo. I admire only as artist. 

Honore. Never again shall you sing when I 
am not there. 

[ 60 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Rjccardo. You make vone gran' meestake. 
Nevare again you come back-stage ven I seeng. 
It is arranged. 

Honore. What? 

Riccardo. De door-man 'e vas given 'is orders : 
Madame Bommarito vill not be admitted, by order 
de impresario. 

Honore. I shall see the impresario myself 
this morning. 

Riccardo [frightened] No, no. 

Honore. The order, if there is an order, shall 
be revoked. 

Riccardo. I vill not let you go to 'im. It is 
my Christian duty. 

Honore. Two years ago you were begging me 
hourly to see him, to persuade him to give you a 
chance. 

Riccardo. Dat vas in dem days past. Now I 
am de great tenor. You vill drive me insane ! 

Honore. You must be put in your place. 

Riccardo. O, O. An' I 'ave got to seeng to- 
night. [Begins to hum the Siciliana.] 

[Honore moves toward the piano.] 

Riccardo. Don't you dare play. [Hurries to 
the piano and sits on the key-board so she mayn't.] 

[Honore rings the bell.~] 

Riccardo. Vat you do? 

Honore. I'm going out. 

Riccardo. Bene! Den I can practice. 
[Alarmed] Don't you go near opera-'ouse. 

[Clara enters.] 

[ 61 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Honore. I wish to dress. My most becoming 
suit. 

Riccardo. You are not to go see 'im! 

[Honor ~e moves, left.'] 

Clara. Oh, Signor, did you see your wonder- 
ful notice this morning? 

Riccardo [completely forgetting Honore] No. 
Ver is 'e? 

[Clara runs to the table, gets paper, gives it to 
Riccardo.] 

Clara. It's the finest write-up you've had yet. 

[Riccardo takes the paper and reads. He is 
delighted.] 

Clara. And how you sang ! I was in the gal- 
lery. Oh, Signor, when you stood there in the 
second act, so big, so brave, defying that terrible 
Scarpio, I wanted to fall at your feet. 

Riccardo. Si, Chiara, at my feet. 

Honore [explodes] You, you — lied to me. 

Clara [frightened] Oh, Madame, I forgot you 
were here. 

Honore. You deserted me. When I went to 
my dressing-room you were not there to powder 
my back. 

Clara. I — I — 

Honore. You told me you had a fever. And 
you went off to hear my beastly husband sing. 
Oh, why did I ever marry a tenor? 

Riccardo. Chiara, it is bee-eautiful. [Kisses 
paper.] Vat 'e says: "Nevare 'ave ve 'eard E 
lucevan le stelle more bee-eautifully sung." An' 
[ 62 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Chiara, Chiara, [takes her hands and whirls her 
round'] Caruso sang E lucevan le stelle last veek. 

Honore. How much did that notice cost you? 

Riccardo. I pay for it vid my blood. From 
my ? eart I seeng. 

Clara. And tonight you sing Turridu? 

Riccardo. Si, leetle Chiara. [Suddenly very 
matter of fact] My God, I must practice. 

Clara. Oh, Signor, it's — grand. If only the 
paper hadn't neglected Madame. 

Honore. Sh ! 

Riccardo. Neglected? 

Clara. I don't think the man ever went to the 
recital. 

[Riccardo is looking through the paper. Honore 
grabs Clara by the skirt and is pulling her, left.] 

Riccardo [bursting into laughter] "Small 
'ouse." De compositions. [Laughs] "De great 
Lazenby." It look like she vas a dead vone. An' 
she tell me vone million times der is no pianist like 
'Onore Lazenby. [Roars with laughter.] 

Honore [has tried in vain to control herself] 
Oh, oh! That it should come to this. My hus- 
band, a miserable Dago tenor, whom I raised to 
stardom, laughs, shrieks with mirth when I'm 
neglected. Oh, oh! 

Clara. But Madame, you're not neglected. 

Honore. What? 

Clara. The other papers extoll you to the sky. 

Honore. You wicked girl. Why haven't 
you brought them to me? 

[ 63 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Clara. You said you wouldn't look at another 
for Paderewski's scalp. 

Honore [gives Clara a shove'} Get them or I'll 
choke you. 

[Clara hurries out, right.} 

Riccardo [continues to strut} O, I toP you. I 
toP you not to play dcm silly modern composers. 
You laugh at gran' Italian opera. But you see: 
"de tenor of de age," me, Riccardo Bommarito, vat 
used to be a vaiter an' serve de spaghetti. [With 
a gesture.} 

Honore. You never told me that. 

Riccardo. I vas afraid to. But now you can 
no 'urt me if you tell de vide vorld 'ow, ven I vas 
finking of my so gran' voice, I spill de spaghet 
vid tomat' sauce. 

Honore. Oh why, why did I ever marry you? 

Riccardo. I am vone of de vonders of de vorld. 

Honore. Puh ! An Italian tenor. 

Riccardo. No. An Italian tenor vid a vaist 
line, — so [gesture}. 

[Clara enters with the papers.} 

Clara. They're all opened, Madame, to your 
notice. 

Honore [snatches a paper; reads} Oho ! Aha ! 
Half a column. "Superb." "Fire and passion." 
"Like rain-drops on a bed of mignonette." 

[Riccardo is horribly jealous.} 

Clara. This one says you are unquestionably 
the greatest woman pianist. 

Riccardo [imploringly} Chiara, Chiara ! 

Honore [reads from another paper} "She has 
[ 64 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

the intellectuality of Von Bulow, the technical 
brilliancy of Liszt." 

Riccardo [tragically] Chiara, vat does dat 
paper say of me? 

Clara. Just a moment, Signor — oh here — 
"Bommarito sang Cavaradossi in his usual excel- 
lent fashion." 

Riccardo [smiles'] Si. Vat else? 

Clara. Nothing. 

[Riccardo holds his head.] 

Honore {looking at another 'paper] Glorious. 
They say of me what Scudo said of Thalberg: 
"Her scales were like perfectly strung pearls fall- 
ing on scarlet velvet." 

[Overjoyed, Honore tosses the paper into the 
air, moves to the piano and plays Rachmaninoff , s 
Prelude in G minor.] 

[As she plays] "When Bommarito sings the 
critics haven't time to go to Madama Lazenby's re- 
cital." So? "The greatest woman pianist." 
"Like pearls falling on scarlet velvet." — Liszt, 
Von Bulow — Ah ! [Gives herself up completely to 
the music] 

[Slight pause.] 

Riccardo. But, Chiara, I vas vonderful? 

Clara. You were heavenly. [Turns and goes 
out.] 

Riccardo [satisfied] 'Eavenly. [Walks bach 
and forth thinking only of himself. Soon bursts 
into the Siciliana again.] 

Honore [enraged; stops playing] You dare 
sing that cheap Italian ditty when I play? 
[ 65 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Riccardo. I mus' re'earse. [Sings. - ] 

Honore. When I play no man shall even 
whisper. 

Riccardo [furiously] It no matter if you play 
ven I vork like dem dogs, but I must be a statue 
ven you sit at de damn mechanical pianoforte all 
day an' night. 

Honore. It's an insult too great to bear. 

Riccardo. You t'ink you are de vone person to 
be considered. You make beeg meestake. I am 
'ere an' I am maestro. 

Honore. Maestro. Spaghetti. 

Riccardo. You make of my life inferno. 

Honore. And you, what do you do to me? 

Riccardo. Of my peccadilloes you make de 
great crimes. I vid soul an' voice of supreme artist 
must shut up for a technician on a music box. 

Honore. I married you, whom I found singing 
at moving pictures, and I made you a tenor in the 
greatest opera house in the world. And for that, — 
you bellow when I play. 

Riccardo. I become de great artist an' you 
get so jealous you vish me back in dot spaghetti 
business. 

Honore. I do, I do. 

Riccardo. O! 

Honore. Then my life was perfect. Every 
one knelt to me. Now there's nothing but singing 
off-key. 

Riccardo. I nevare seeng off-key ! 

Honore. Flatting, bellowing, face as red as a 
lobster when you hold a high note. 
[ 66 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Riccardo. Stop it, stop it. 

Honore. I must listen to that. But when I 
sit down to play one little bijou by Rachmaninoff 
you make the noise of a parrot. This my thanks 
for making you a tenor. 

Riccardo. You 'ave de tenor of de age for 
'usband. 

Honore. A body with a head on top of it. 

Riccardo. Veil, dat is for vat you marry me. 

Honore. I married you because — why did I 
marry you, I wonder. 

Riccardo. You marry me because I am Apollo. 
An' everybody 'e know it. [In despair"] O, 'Onore, 
'Onore, an' I must seeng tonight. 

Honore. I don't care whether you ever 
"seeng" again. 

Riccardo. If you keep dis up my voice 'e die 
in my t'roat. 

Honore. Did you speak to that red-haired 
dancer last night? 

Riccardo. Vid my soul I speak to all dem 
vomens, an' dey give me der 'earts. Ver are my 
mails, my letters? [Sees letters, picks them up.] 
You 'ave opened my letters. [Reads] "Dear Sig- 
nor, I cannot sleep until I vrite an' tell you dat 
I vas in 'eaven tonight. I love you, Signor, I love 
you." Fifty vomens a day love me. 

Honore. Women who write such letters should 
be tarred and feathered. 

Riccardo. I had many letters like dem from 
you. 

Honore. Even in a restaurant you sit and 

[ 67 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

make eyes, such eyes, at the girl at the next table. 

Riccardo. I did not make dem eyes. I only 
smile, — so [smile s~\. An' you, so jealous, ve must 
leave vid all de eaters laughing. I 'ear free lovely 
vomens say: poor 'usband. 

Honore. Do you think there are no men ready 
to drop on the pavement so I can walk over them? 

Riccardo. You vould, you vould ! Because I 
vill not lie in dot gutter, you pound dot box wen I 
seeng Bianca come fior de spino. 

Honore. This settles it. I can't live with you 
another day. 

Riccardo. You t'ink dot make me 'urt? Ven 
you go I am in paradiso. 

Honore. I shall go where I am appreciated. 

Riccardo. An' my soul 'e vill not tear every 
five meenutes. 

Honore. My heart is lacerated. 

Riccardo. My 'eart 'e is like vone tombstone. 

Honore. Marble; or better, sandstone. 

Riccardo. Vy, dat leetle, bee-eautiful bal- 
lerina — ■ 

Honore. Oh! Separation! Divorce! 

Riccardo. Si. An' den — o paradiso ! [He 
almost sings the O Paradiso phrase from the aria 
in Africana.] 

[Honore has picked up a theatrical sheet which 
Clara brought in with the newspapers. Absent- 
mindedly she has been turning the pages. Sud- 
denly she starts; reads intently for a moment, then 
explodesJ] 

Honore. Oh, the beast ! 
[ 68 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Riccardo. Vot is dat? 

Honoke. Infamy. To print such a lie. 

Riccardo. Tell me vat is it. 

[Honore hands the paper to Riccardo. He 
reads. Honore paces back and forth, muttering.] 

Honore. Rogues, beasts, demons incarnate. 

[Riccardo does not grasp what he's reading. 
Reads again aloud.] 

Riccardo. "Judging from indications a cele- 
brated tenor an' 'is no less talented vife are not 
living in de greatest 'armony." Dio mio. "Re- 
cently dey 'ave quarrelled in public. If rumor be 
true, musical America vill soon enjoy a spicy 
divorce scandal, t'ough de vriter 'as not been able 
to learn if it is de Madame or de Signor dat is 
starting proceedings. Ve vonder vill de pianist 
also drop the ridiculous name she acquired vid her 
marriage?" Vat is funny in Bommarito? 

Honore [giving vent to a furious] Oh! 

Riccardo. Vy, dis is devils, I say dey are 
devils. 

Honore. Go at once and horsewhip the writer. 

Riccardo. I vill. Dey make a story vile of 
our quiet 'ome — 

Honore. They shall be strung up for print- 
ing such lies. 

Riccardo. Dat is too good. Dragged t'rough 
de streets — 

Honore. Vulgarians speaking so of a great 
tenor and — 

Riccardo. Madame Lazenby-Bommarito, de 
foremost voman pianist. 

[ 69 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Honore. Lies, lies, we have not quarrelled in 
public. 

Riccardo. My 'eart 'e is in pieces. 

Honore. As though we were bareback-circus- 
riders, — depending on press stories. 

Riccardo. An' always ve 'ave lived vone quiet 
leetle life. I nevare even tol' my representative 
dot vonce I dish spaghetti. 

Honore. They shall suffer for this. 

Riccardo. Ver is my 'at? I buy vone 'orse- 
vip an' two stiletto. Den dey know not to break 
'earts of two great artists. 

Honore. Wait. We may just as well have a 
more satisfying revenge. 

Riccardo. Vat you mean? 

Honore. If you kill the writer it means 
nothing to him. 

Riccardo. To kill, dat is only revenge for a 
tenor. 

Honore. He and his paper must suffer. Do 
you know when Americans suffer the most? 

Riccardo. Vat? 

Honore. When money is taken from them. 

Riccardo. Money? 'Ow, 'ow, 'Onore? 

Honore. Seventy-five thousand dollars. 

Riccardo. So much? Can ve? 

Honore. I've my eye on a new string of pearls. 

Riccardo. So much our 'earts dey 'ave been 
damaged. 

Honore. Send for the lawyer at once. We'll 
sue them for seventy-five thousand dollars' worth 
of pain. 

[ 70 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Riccardo [rushing to the door, calling] Chiara, 
Chiara, qveeck. 

Honoee. When we give every moment of our 
lives to make people happy with our music they 
wound us so. 

Riccardo. I vas to seeng Turridu tonight. 
Now I cannot seeng. 

Honore. My poor Riccardo. 

Riccardo. Dat paper 'e 'as deprived my great 
public vone evening of paradiso. A fat under- 
study vill take my place. 

[Clara enters.] 

Honore. Call my lawyer. He must come at 
once. I am dying. 

Clara. Oh, you haven't really quarrelled? 

Riccardo. Quarrelled? 

Honore. We never quarrel ! 

Riccardo. An' call opera-'ouse. I am indis- 
posed. I cannot seeng Turridu. 

Clara. But I've bought my seat ! 

Honore. Serves you right. 

[Clara goes out, right.] 

Riccardo. Because of dat paper I must dis- 
appoint leetle Chiara. Maybe she sue too? 

Honore [moving right] When the public learns 
that we are suing because our sacred home life has 
been disparaged your salary will go up two hun- 
dred dollars a night. [Opens door and calls] 
Clara. 

Clara [off-stage] Yes, Madame. 

Honore. Send for the photographer too. 

Riccardo. Pictures? [Already posing.] 
[ TL ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Honore [closes door~\ Yes. Only this morning 
I had a letter from the Theatre Magazine asking 
for pictures of our home life. 

Riccardo. Bene ! Capito ! 

Ho no re. The magazine goes to press in four 
days. We will have the pictures taken and every 
one shall see how the paper lied. 

Riccardo. Shall I pose as Turridu? 

Honore. Stupid. Our home life. Like those 
intimate family affairs in the Victor Supplement. 

Riccardo [putting his arm around her^ 'Onore, 
you are vonderful. 

Honore. My dear Dicky. We must rehearse 
the photographs. Come to the piano. 

[They go to the piano. Honore sits, Riccardo 
stands beside her.^ 

Honore. First we'll have a picture which says : 
Madame plays her husband's accompaniments. 

Riccardo. But you don't. 

Honore. But the people must think I do if 
we're to get that seventy-five thousand. Stand 
there so you can find inspiration in my eyes when 
you sing. 

Riccardo. As I look at Mimi ven I seeng 
[sings the phrase^ Che gelida manima? 

Honore. Under the picture shall be written: 
Madame is Signor's real Mimi. 

Riccardo. Si, si. 

[Honore rises; takes music from the piano and 
Riccardo by the hand.~\ 

Honore. Come. 

[ ™ ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

\_She leads Riccardo to the davenport. They sit, 
Honore opens the music on their lapsj] 

Honore. Put your arm around me. 

[Riccardo obeys.~\ 

Honore. This one shall be called : the artists 
study a new role together. 

Riccardo. Shall I be keesing you? 

Honore. That would smack too much of 
pleasure. This much seem to be work, real work. 

Riccardo. 0, you are vonderful, vonderful. 
Vat else ? 

Honore. If we only had a child. 

Riccardo. But you — 

Honore. The public believes no harm of 
artists with children. We must have a child. In 
the picture we'll be sitting on the floor, the three 
of us, playing with the toys. 

Riccardo. Der is not time. 

Honore. We'll adopt one. Think: seventy- 
five thousand dollars. 

Riccardo. O, ve go to orp'an-'ouse? 

Honore. We'll borrow one for the pictures. 
The janitor has six. 

Riccardo. But he von't give — 

Honore. No one will know the difference. We 
borrow his for today. Some day next week we 
adopt one. 

Riccardo. You are superb. 

Honore. We will get that seventy-five 
thousand. 

Riccardo. Maybe ve buy dem pearls to- 
morrow. 

[ 73 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Honore. Now call Clara and have her bring 
up one of the children. 

Riocardo [goes toward door, right] A little 
giovanetto. 

Honore. No. 

[Riccardo stops. ] 

Honore. A girl. 

Riccardo. I vant a boy. 

Honore. It must be a girl. 

[The storm commences.] 

Riccardo. I say it must be a boy. I vill make 
'im great tenor. 

Honore. I won't have a noisy boy around 
here. 

Riccardo. A girl vill cry all day. I von't 'ave 
a child unless 'e is a boy. 

Honore. Don't drive me mad again. Who's 
managing this? Who's doing the work? Who's 
planning everything? I say it shall be a girl! 

Riccardo. You vill not 'ave your vay. You 
vould make of me vone slave. 

Honore. A dirty-faced, sticky boy. Never. 
One male in this apartment is too many. 

Riccardo. I fought so. You vould be rid of 
me. 

Honore. Other men would — 

Riccardo. Just because you play de box — 

Honore. You have no sympathy. 

Riccardo. I vill 'ave my vay, me vid my voice. 

Honore. You sha'n't. It must be a girl. 

Riccardo. Den I 'ave no children. 

Honore. But we must — for the pictures. 
[ 74 ] 



LOVE AMONG THE LIONS 

Riccardo. Dis picture business make me seeck. 
I vill not pose. 

[Clara enters.'] 

Clara. The photographer is here. 

Riccardo. Send 'im avay. 

Honore. No. 

Riccardo. Den it is to be a boy? 

Honore. Clara, go bring the janitor's baby. 

Riccardo. Is dat baby vone boy or vone girl? 

Clara. I don't know, Signor. 

Honore. Ah, get her, — it, I mean. Send the 
photographer in. 

[Clara goes out, right.] 

Riccardo. [threateningly] T bet dat janitor's 
baby 'e is a girl. If it is vone girl you don't get 
dem pearls. 

Honore. Sh! He's coming. Quick. 

[Honore takes his hand and hurries Riccardo to 
the piano. She sits and begins to play the 
Siciliana. Riccardo sings, looking into her eyes. 
Clara enters with the photographer.] 

Photographer. Good morn — 

Clara [putting her hand over the photog- 
rapher's mouth] Sh! 

[Momentary pause. Honore and Riccardo feign 
to be oblivious to the others.] 

Photographer. I'll take that picture. 

Clara. Sh ! 

Photographer [irrepressible] Is this the way 
they practice? 

Clara. This is love among the lions. 
CURTAIN 
[ 75 ] 



BROTHERS 

A Sardonic Comedy 



CHARACTERS 

Seth 

Lon 

Pa 



Copyright, 1918, by 
Lewis Beach. 



Originally produced by 
The Provincetown Players, December, 1920. 



BROTHERS 

Scene : A 'very small room in a tar-papered 
shanty, reeking poverty. The entrance is centre- 
back, — a few boards nailed together for a door. 
A similar door, opening into the bedroom of the 
shack, upstage right. Downstage left, a broken 
window. Left centre, a rusty cooking stove. 
Above it, a series of shelves holding a few dishes 
and cooking utensils. Rough board table in the 
centre of the room, A kitchen chair at the right 
of the table. A large wooden rocker near the 
stove; rope and wire hold it together. An arm- 
chair, below the door, right, is full of newspapers. 
Several heterogeneous coloured prints, culled from 
out-of-date newspapers and calendars, are tacked 
on the rain-stained walls. When the entrance 
door is open we see a cleared, sandy spot with a 
background of scrub oaks and jack pines. 

The curtain rises on the late afternoon of a 
spring day. 

(A man of forty enters, leaving the bedroom 
door open behind him. His small head and child- 
ish face, on a tall, thin, and extremely erect body, 
resemble those of a species of putty-like rubber 
doll whose head may be reshaped by the hand. He 
wears a winter cap, blue flannel shirt, well-worn 
trousers with suspenders, and sneakers that were 
[ 79 ] 



BROTHERS 

once white. Outside shirt sleeves are rolled to the 
elbow; undershirt sleeves are not. His shoes make 
no noise; nevertheless, he comes on tip-toe, his eyes 
-fixed on the shelves. For a moment he stops and 
glances into the room he has just quitted. Satis- 
fied, he squats before the shelves. He hesitates, 
then quickly lifts from a lower shelf an inverted 
cooking vessel, and grasps a small tin box which 
was hidden under it. He inspects the box, trying 
to decide whether he can pry open its lock.) 

The voice of an old, infirm man in the ad- 
joining room. Seth? 

Seth [alarmed; starts to return the box to the 
shelf '] Yes, Pa? [His voice is pitched high.'] 

Pa [querulously] What yuh doin'? 

Seth. Jest settin'. 

Pa. Don't yuh go near my tin box 'til I'm 
dead. 

[Seth makes no answer.] 

Pa. D'yuh hear? 

Seth. I hear. 

Pa. I won't hev no one know nothin' 'bout my 
last will an' testament 'til I'm dead. 

[There is a pause. Seth is regarding the box 
intently.] 

Pa. Seth? 

Seth [peevishly] What d'yuh want? 

Pa. Bring me a drink. 

Seth. There ain't no more water in the pail. 

Pa. There's lots in the well this spring. 

[A pause. Seth continues his scrutiny of the 
lock.] 

[ 80 ] 



BROTHERS 

Pa. My throat's burnin' up. 

Seth. Wall maybe I kin find a drop. [Puts 
the box on the shelf and re-covers it; in doing so 
makes a slight noise. ~\ 

Pa. What's that noise? 

Seth. I'm gettin' yuh a drink. 

[Seth strolls to the stove, lifts the top from the 
kettle, and looks inside. He finds a tin cup and 
fills it with water. Looking into the kettle again, 
he sees there is little water left. Why make a trip 
to the pump necessary? Back into the kettle goes 
some of the water. Cup in hand, he moves toward 
the bedroom. Tie reaches the door when a sagging- 
bellied man enters from the yard. It is Lon, the 
elder, shorter brother. His face has become 
moulded into an expressionless stare, and his every 
movement seems to be made with an effort. An 
abused man, Lon, the most ill-treated fellow in the 
world. At least, so he is ever at pains to have all 
understand. He wears an old felt hat, cotton 
shirt, badly patched trousers, suspenders attached 
to the buttons of his trousers with string, and shoes 
that are almost soleless. His shirt, stained with 
sweat, is opened at the throat, revealing red flannel 
underwear. When Seth sees Lon he immediately 
closes the bedroom door, silently turns the key in 
the lock, and puts the key in his pocket. For a 
moment the men stand looking at each other, re- 
minding one of two roosters. Then Seth strolls to 
the stove, pours the water into the kettle, and 
planks himself down in the rocker. Lon glances 
once or twice at the bedroom door, but moves not 
[ 81 ] 



BROTHERS 

to it. He watches Seth suspiciously. Finally he 
speaks.] 

Lon [in an expressionless drawl] I hear Pa's 
dyin'. 

Seth. Yuh hear right. 

Lon [with a motion of his head toward the bed- 
room] Is he in there? 

Seth. Yes. 

[Lon hesitates, then moves slowly towards Pa's 
room. An idea strikes Seth suddenly and he in- 
terrupts Lou's progress.] 

Seth. He's asleep. 

[Lon stops. Seth fills his pipe and lights it. 
Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs 
meaningly. Seth looks at Lon, sees what he wants, 
but does not offer him tobacco. Lon puts his pipe 
back into his pocket, moves to the table, sits and 
sighs. He crosses his right foot so Seth sees what 
was once the sole of his shoe.] 

Seth. What did yuh come here fur? 

Lon. 'Cause Pa's dyin'. 

Seth. Yuh never come when he was about. 

Lon. Wall, no one ever seed yuh settin' here 
much. 

Seth [fleeringly] Suppose yuh want t' know 
what he's left yuh. 

Lon. Wall, ■ — it warn't comfortable 

comin' three miles an' a quarter on a day like 
this un. 

Seth [cackles] Sand's hot on yer bare naked 
feet, ain't it? 

Lon [moves his feet] Yuh kin talk 'bout my 
[ 82 ] 



BROTHERS 

holey boots. If I didn't hev no mouths but my 
own t' feed I guess I could buy new ones too. So 
there, Seth Polland! 

Seth. Jacobs offered yuh a job at the fisheries 
same as me. 

Lon. It's too fur t' hoof it twict a day. 

Seth. Yuh could sleep at the fisheries. 

Lon. I got t' look after my kids. 

Seth [grins] 'Tain't my fault yuh've kids. 

Lon [threateningly] Don't yuh talk 'bout that! 
[Pause.] Yer woman had t' leave yuh. [Laughs.] 
Yuh didn't give her 'nough t' eat. 

Seth [indifferently] She warn't no good. 

Lon. She had t' leave yuh same as Ma left Pa 
twenty years ago. Pa's dyin' fur sure? 

Seth. Who told yuh? 

Lon. Ma. 

Seth [greatly surprised] Ma? [Suspiciously] 
What yuh got t' do with her? 

Lon. I was passin' her place this mornin'. 
Furst time I spoke t' her in a year. 

Seth. I ain't in two. 

Lon [in despair] Seth, she's cut twenty cords of 
wood t' sell. 

Seth [shaking his head] An' me without a roof 
o' my own. 

Lon. Me an' the kids wonder sometimes where 
our next meal's comin' from. 

Seth [as though there were something better in 
store for him] Oh, wall. 

Lon [pricks up his ears; coughs] If I had this 
house I could work at the fisheries. 
[ 83 ] 



BROTHERS 

Seth. But yuh ain't a gain' t' git it. 

Lon [alarmed] Pa ain't gone an' left it t' yuh? 

Seth. Pa deeded this t' Doc last winter. 

Lon [amazed and angered] He did? 

Seth. Doc said he could live here 'til he died. 
But it's Doc's. 

Lon. It warn't right. 

Seth. Wall, he had t' pay fur his physics some 
way. He told me yuh wouldn't help him out. 

Lon. And Pa told me yuh wouldn't. An' yuh 
ain't got two kids t' feed. [Pause. ~] There's Pa's 
old shanty down the road. If I had that I could 
work at the fisheries. 

[Seth's smile is his only res<ponse.~\ 

Lon. Pa still owns it, don't he? 

Seth. There warn't no call fur him t' make his 
last will an' testament if he don't. 

Lon [brightens] He's left his last will an' tes- 
tament? 

Seth. Yes. I'm figgerin' on sellin' the place 
t' Doc. 

Lon [emphatically] Pa ain't a left it t' yuh ! 

Seth. Doc'll want it. 

Lon [forcefully] Where's the will an' testa- 
ment? 

Seth [with a gesture] In the tin box under that 
there kittle. 

[Lon hurries to the shelves, picks up the dish, 
and grasps the box.] 

Lon [dis a p pointed] It's locked. 

Seth. An' the key's round Pa's neck. 

Lon. Let's git it. 

Seth. Pa won't give it t' us. 
[ 84 ] 



BROTHERS 

Lon. Yuh said he was sleepin'. 

Seth. I mean — he might wake up. 

[Lon inspects the box further.] 

Lon. I think I could open it. 

Seth. Pa might ask t' see it. 

Lon. Hell. [Puts the box bach on the shelf."] 

Seth. Doc'll want the place seein' as how it's 
right next t' this un. 

[Lon is very nervous.] 

Seth. Yuh might jest as wall go home. 

Lon. No, yuh don't ! Yuh can't make me be- 
lieve Pa's left it t' yuh. [Takes off his hat and 
mops his brow with his sleeve. The top of his head 
is very bald.] 

Seth. Then what yuh gittin' so excited 'bout? 

Lon. I ain't excited. [Puts his hat on.] It 
jest makes me mad 'cause yuh say Pa left it t' yuh, 
an' I know he ain't. See? There warn't no call 
fur him t' hev willed an' testamented it t' yuh. 
Yuh've only yerself t' look after an' I've two 
motherless kids. 

Seth. Everyone knows how much Pa thought 
o' them. 

Lon. It warn't my fault if they thumbed their 
noses at him. 

Seth. Yuh could o' basted 'em. 

Lon. They's like their Ma. Bastin' never done 
her no good, God rest her soul. All the same, Pa 
knowd how hard it is fur me t' keep their bellies 
full. Why, when we hev bread Alexander never 
wants less than half the loaf! An' all the work I 
[ 85 ] 



BROTHERS 

git t' do is what the city folks who come t' the 
Beach in the summer gives me. 

Seth. Huh! Jest as though I didn't know 
'bout yuh. Mr. Breckenridge told me yuh wouldn't 
even contract t' chop his wood fur him. An' there 
yuh sets all winter long in that God-fursaken 
shanty o' yourn, with trees all round yuh; an' yuh 
won't put an axe t' one 'til yer own fire dies out. 

Lon. My back ain't never been strong. Chop- 
pin' puts the kinks in it. Yuh kin talk, yuh kin, 
Seth Polland, with a soft job at the fisheries an' 
three squares a day which yuh don't hev t' cook 
yourself. 'Nothin' t' do all winter but walk round 
them cottages an' see that no one broke in. An' 
I'm the one who knows how often yuh walk round 
them cottages. I wish I had yer snap. [*Si£s.] 
But I ain't never had no luck. 

Seth [defending himself] I walk round them 
cottages jest as often as I needs t' walk round 
them cottages. 

Lon. Huh! I could tell a tale. Who was it 
set with his feet in the oven last winter, an' let Jack 
Tompkins break into them cottages, — with keys? 
[Seth does not ansxoer.~\ I could tell, I could. But 
I ain't goin' t' 'til they put me on the witness- 
stand. [Pause. ~\ But the furst initials of his name 
is Seth Polland. 

Seth [rising instantly] Lon Polland, yuh ever 
tell an' I'll skin yuh alive. 

Lon. Huh! 

Seth. Skin yuh like a pole-cat. 

Lon. Huh ! 

[ 86 ] 



BROTHERS 

[Seth turns, knocks the ashes from his pipe into 
the stove. Lon rises; takes Seth's chair and rocks 
vigorously.] 

Seth. Yuh know what I got on yuh. 

[Lon's bravado is short-lived. He rocks less 
strenuously.] 

Seth. Yuh thought I didn't see yuh, but I was 
right on the spot when yuh set fire t' Mr. Rogers' 
bath-house. 

[Lon stops rocking.] 

Seth. Right behind a jack pine I was an' seen 
yuh do it. An' yuh done it 'cause Mr. Rogers 
leaved Jessup paint the house when you thought 
yuh ought t' had the job. 

Lon [rises] I got t' be a gittin home a fore 
dark an' tend t' my stock. 

Seth. Stock? [Cackles. Pulls out his tobacco- 
pouch and fills his pipe.] 

[Lon shows his pipe again.] 

Seth. A blind mare an' a rooster. [Drops 
pouch on the table as he lights his pipe.] 

Lon. Rooster's dead. [Moves stealthily toward 
the table.] 

Seth. What of? 

Lon. Pip. 

Seth. Starvation. 

Lon. I would a killed him this long time, but 
Victoria howled so when I threatened. The fowl 
used t' wake me in winter same as summer with his 
crowin'. 

[As Lon finishes his speech he reaches for the 
pouch. But Seth's hand is quicker. Seth moves 
[ 87 ] 



BROTHERS 

to the rocker and sits, dangling the pouch tempt- 
ingly by one finger. Lon puts his pipe in his 
pocket.] 

Seth. Should think you'd want t' set round 
'til Pa dies, bein' as yer so sure he's left yuh his 
property. 

Lon. He ought a left it t' me. 

Seth. Wall, I'm a tellin' yuh it's mine. 

Lon. Yuh ain't got no right t' it. [Mops h>s 
head again.'] Pa begged yuh t' come an' live with 
him, offered yuh this fine roof over yer head, an' 
yuh was too cussed even t' do that fur him. An' 
now yuh expect he's made yuh his heir. 

Seth. I've treated him righter 'an yuh. 

Lon. Yuh ain't. 

[Suddenly something seems to snap in Seth's 
brain. He looks as though he were in intense 
pain.] 

Seth [gasping] Maybe he's left it t' the two of 
us ' 

Lon. What? 

Seth. Maybe he's divided the place a 'tween us. 

Lon [shakes his head] Oh, he wouldn't be so un- 
human as that. 

Seth. He would. He was always settin' one 
agin t' other. 

Lon. He used t' tell me I had t' figger how t' 
git the best o' yuh or he'd baste me. 

Seth. He was all the time whettin' us on when 
we was kids. 

Lon. It was him showed me how t' shake my 
[ 88 ] 



BROTHERS 

old clock so it'd run fur five minutes, an' then you'd 
swop that pail yuh found fur it. 

Seth. Huh! He give him his gum t' stop up 
the hole in that pail. Yuh wouldn't know it leaked 
an' we could laugh at yuh when you had t' carry 
water in it. 

Lon [pathetic ally] There warn't never more 
'an a pint left when I got t' the house. An' Pa 
always had sech a thirst. 

Seth. He'd like t' laugh at us in his grave. 

Lon. It jest tickled him t' raise hell a 'tween us. 

Seth [rises] I'll take my oath he's divided the 
old shanty an' the two acres a 'tween us. [Drops 
into his chair like a condemned rnanJ] An' I fig- 
gered I'd be sellin' them t' Doc t'morrow. 

Lon. Me an' the kids was a goin t' hev a gar- 
den on the cleared spot. 

Seth. A garden in that sand? 

Lon. Radishes an' rutabagas. 

Seth [persuasively; his manner becomes kind] 
Lon, what yuh need is the shanty. 

Lon [droning] The shanty ain't no good t' me 
without I hev the ground fur it t' set on. 

Seth. Yuh kin tear it down an' use the lumber 
t' mend yer old leaky one. 

Lon. I want the shanty t' live in so I kin git a 
soft job at the fisheries. [Sympathetically] Yuh 
ought t' hev a shanty, Seth. Supposin' yuh was 
t' take sick. They wouldn't keep yuh at the fish- 
eries then. Yuh take my place an' give me Pa's. 

Seth [flashing' into anger] I want the two acres 
t' sell Doc. Yer old place leaks like a net ! [Then, 

[ 89 ] 



BROTHERS 

fearing he has been too disparaging:] But yuh 
could make it real comfortable with the lumber in — 

Lon [cutting in\ I'll make a bargain. I'll leave 
yuh a bedstead an' a table if yuh'll take my place. 

Seth. I don't want it ! I want Pa's old place. 

Lon. An' I want it. I'm older 'an yuh. 

Seth. I got the best claim t' it. 

Lon. Yuh ain't. Me with three mouths t' feed. 
Yer a swindler, yuh are. Yuh always tried t' cheat 
me. 

Seth. No one kin say that t' me. I'm an honest 
man. But I'm a goin' t' hev the two acres if I 
hev t' go t' law. 

Lon. Wall, yuh ain't a goin' t' wreck me. 

Seth [calmly; 'philanthropic again] Maybe yer 
right, Lon, when yuh say I ought t' hev a roof. 
I'll tell yuh what I'll do, seein' as how yer my 
brother. Yuh give me the ground an' the house on 
it, an' I'll make yuh a present o' twenty-five dollars. 

Lon. That's a lie ! Yuh ain't got twenty-five 
dollars t' yer name. 

Seth. Yuh think so. 

Lon. Every one in these parts knows yuh owes 
Hawkins forty-three dollars an' twenty-nine cents 
he kin't collect. Give me the house an' ground, an' 
I'll give yuh my own house an' my note fur twenty- 
five dollars. 

Seth. Yer note! I'm a goin' t' hev Pa's old 
place. 

Lon. An' I say that yuh or no swindler like yuh 
is a goin' t' cheat me out o' it. 

Seth. I ain't a swindler, yuh wall-eyed son — 
[ 90 ] 



BROTHERS 

Lon [advancing] Take it back. Don't yu1i call 
me dissipated names. 

Seth. I'll never take it back. 

\JLon doubles his fists and strikes. But the blow 
lands m the air as Seth grabs Lon. They fight 
furiously and in dead earnest, though there is no 
ethics to the struggle. The rickety furniture 
trembles as they advance and retreat. Seth is 
quicker and lighter and less easily winded; but 
Lou's bidk is not readily moved, and, despite his 
"weak back," he can still wield his arm. It looks 
like a fight to the finish. But suddenly Pa's voice 
is heard, calling ivildly to Seth. The men do not 
move: the voice seems to have paralyzed their mus- 
cles. For a moment they stand dazed. Then con- 
sciousness comes to them; they realize that the 
waiting is over. They tear to the bedroom. A 
silence follows. They must be fascinated by the 
ghost of the old man.^ 

Seth [in the bedroom; quietly] He's gone, Lon. 

Lon [in the bedroom] Yer right, Seth. 

[Then their voices rise in dispute.] 

Lon. Don't yuh take it. 

Seth. I've got it ! 

Lon. It's mine ! 

Seth. It ain't! 

Lon. Yuh kin't — 

Seth. Shut up ! 

[They rush into the kitchen, Seth in advance, 
Lon close on his heels. Seth throws the cooking- 
dish to the floor, grabs the box and hurries to the 
table. As though they were about to discover a 
[ 91 ] 



BROTHERS 

world's secret, they unlock the box, each as near 
to it as possible, his arms tense, fingers itching, 
ready to ward off a blow or seize the treasure. 
From the box, Seth tales an old tobacco-pouch, a 
jack-knife, a bit of heavy cord, and a couple of 
letters. These are contemptuously thrown on the 
table. The will lies at the bottom of the box. Lon 
snatches it. Seth would take it from him/] 

Lon. Hold off! I'm jest goin' t' read it. 

[Seth curbs his impatience. Lon opens the 
document and reads, slowly and haltingly.] 

Lon. "I, Nathaniel Polland, o' Sandy Point in 
the County o' Rhodes an' State o' Michigan, bein' 
o' sound mind an' memory, do make, publish, an' 
declare this t' be my last Will an' Testament, in 
manner followin', viz — ." What does "viz" mean? 

[Unable to bear the suspense longer, Seth seizes 
the paper. He scans it until his eyes catch the all- 
important paragraph.] 

Seth. " — Bequeath all my earthly possessions 
to my wife, Jennie Polland." 

[They stand like two men suddenly deprived of 
thought and motion. Medusa's victims could not 
have been more pitiable. Then Seth's voice comes 
to him, and sufficient strength to drop into a 
chair.] 

Seth. The damned old critter. 

Lon. I'll be swaned. 

Seth [blazing out] That's gratitude. 

Lon. After all we done fur him. 

Seth [pathetically] An' me a plannin' these last 
five years on gettin' that house an' ground. 
[ 92 ] 



BROTHERS 

Lon. My kids are packin' our furniture this 
afternoon, gettin' ready t' move in. 

Seth [with supreme disgust^ Leavin' it t' Ma. 

Lon. Her who he ain't hardly spoke t' in 
twenty years. 

Seth. Jest as though yuh an' me wasn't alive. 

Lon. We'd given him our last pipeful. 

Seth. His own flesh an' blood. 

Lon. Why, he told me more 'an a thousand 
times he hated Ma. 

Seth. She don't need it. 

Lon. She's ready for the grave-yard. 

Seth. She's that stingy, cuttin' an' choppin' 
wood, sellin' it t' the city folks. We might a 
knowd. 

Lon. An' me a comin' all the three miles an' a 
quarter t' see him a fore he died. 

Seth. I been settin' here two days a waitin'. 

Lon. An' then t' treat us like that. [Wipes 
his mouth.^ Why, the hull place ain't worth a 
damn! 

Seth. A cavin'-in shanty an' two acres yuh 
couldn't grow weeds on. 

Lon. A pile o' sand. 

Seth [rising; bursting into fire like an appar- 
ently dead rocket^ She ain't a goin' t' hev it! 

Lon. What? 

Seth. I won't let Ma hev it ! 

Lon. But how yuh goin' t' stop her? 'T won't 
do no good t' tear up the will an' testament. It's 
rec'-ord-ed. 

[ 93 ] 



BROTHERS 

Seth. Don't make no difference. She ain't a 
goin' t' hev that place. 

Lon [eagerly] But how yuh goin' — ? 

Seth. I don't know. But I'm goin' t'. 

Lon. It ain't hers by rights. 

Seth. Didn't she leave him twenty years ago? 

Lon. Why, she ain't even expectin' it ! 

Seth. She'll never miss it if she don't git it. 

Lon [shaking his head] Me an' the kids packed 
up, ready t' move in. 

[There is a silence. Lon, deep in his disappoint- 
ment; Seth, making his brain work as it has never 
zoorked before. And he is rewarded for his dili- 
gence. A suggestion of his sneering smile comes 
to his face.] 

Seth. Lon ? 

Lon. Yes ? 

Seth [looks about, making sure that only his 
brother is listening] Yuh 'member what yuh done 
t' Rogers when he didn't leave yuh paint his bath- 
house? 

Lon [his eyes open wide] Burn it? 

Seth. Sh ! 

Lon. Oh, no ! 

Seth. Yuh don't want Ma t' hev it, does yuh? 

Lon. When I burned that bath-house I didn't 
sleep good fur a couple o' nights. I dreamed o' 
the sheriff. 

Seth. Nobody knows but me. An' nobody'll 
know yuh an' me set fire t' Pa's old place. 

Lon. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell? 

Seth [raising his right hand] I swear. 
[ 94 J 



BROTHERS 

Lon. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done 
it next time we run agin each other fur district 
school-inspector ? 

Seth [raising his hand again~\ I swear. 'Cause 
if I kin't hev Pa's old place, no one kin. 

Lon. Got matches? 

Seth. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout 
a pint in it. [Takes the can from the bottom 
shelf '.] 

Lon. I may as wall take these papers along 
with me. [Picks up the newspapers.] 

[Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. 
Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs. 
Seth looks at Lon, meditates, then speaks.] 

Seth. Hev a smoke, Lon? 

Lon. Maybe I will. 

[Lon fills his pipe. Seth strikes a match, lights 
his own pipe first, then hands the match to Lon.] 

Seth. We're brothers. 

Lon. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat 
each other right. 

[Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco-pouch in his 
pocket but Seth stops him.] 

Seth. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other 
right if we let Pa's property come into Ma's hands. 

[Seth carries the kerosene; Lon, the papers. 
They go out the back door and disappear. Then 
Seth's voice is heard.] 

Seth [in the yard] Wait a minute, Lon. [Seth 
returns. He picks up Pa , s tobacco-pouch, knife 
and scissors, glances toward the door to see that 
[ 95 ] 



BROTHERS 

Lon isn't watching, and sticks them into his 
pocket.] 

Lon [in the yard] What yuh doin', Seth? [Ap- 
pears at the door.] 

Seth. I thought I left somethin' valuable. But 
I ain't. [He leaves.] 

[Lon and Seth pass out of sight.] 

CURTAIN 



[ 96 ] 



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